


Broken Pieces

by Dordean



Series: There For You [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, And a traumatised one at that, But they both deserve some happiness damn it, Cahir is a lovestruck fool, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Ciri is a brat, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Kinda, Not that brat would ever make anything easy for anyone, Only he's not quite prepared for what it means, Smut, Some threads require violent resolutions, Who will nevertheless get what he wants, Witchering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-01-26 23:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 65,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21382180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean
Summary: It had been a decade since the events in Stygga castle. The Continent was alight with tales of ashen-haired witcheress, and Cahir was not in the habit of letting a threat of imperial gallows (or a complete lack of a plan) stop him from following his heart.Ciri was back and nothing else mattered.A sequel to"I Will Find You".
Relationships: Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach/Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon
Series: There For You [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541740
Comments: 244
Kudos: 173





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) and [ Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale), aka The Best Birbs. 
> 
> Because Sad Boi needs some Good Things in his life. This story takes place well after both the books, and the game, and thus contains major spoilers for the entire franchise. If you've only watched the TV series, be aware that significant future plot reveals are being discussed very early on.
> 
> While this is mostly adventure and feels story, some smut sneaked its way past my defenses, most notably in ch 5, 6, 7 and 9. If it's not your thing, it should be easy enough to avoid. :)
> 
> ***Please note that I have not given my permission for my work to be posted on any third-party website or app. If you're using such apps to read my works, do be aware they may have adds and subscription features meaning their authors make money off my (and others) work without our consent.***

* * *

As soon as the Novigrad-bound ship left the reasonably calm waters of the Gulf of Praxeda, Cahir began to question his life choices.

The winter was relentless this year and turned the crossing into freezing hell. The icy water splashed across the deck in vicious waves and the salty air whipped his face every time he dared as much as to peek outside.

But being inside wasn’t much better—the cabin he could afford barely fit a bed, and wasn’t even tall enough for him to stand up straight. There was no window either, and every time Cahir closed the door to have the minimum of privacy, he had to fight the nauseating dizziness and blind panic, the room feeling like a coffin trapping him inside.

Night after night he spent lying awake, trying to calm his breathing and struggling with panicked thoughts, and whenever he managed to fall asleep, he would jerk awake barely an hour later, covered in a cold sweat, a suffocating scream on his lips, his hands grasping for anything to hold onto.

The nightmare lasted three weeks, and by the end of it Cahir was utterly sick of anything to do with the sea. He dreamt of solid ground under his feet and a piece of wild game roasting over a hearty fire, and he swore not to set foot on board another ship for at least a decade.

It was the beginning of April by the time they finally reached Novigrad. Cahir couldn’t help feeling elated, even though the city didn’t offer much respite, overcrowded and stinking of rotting fish as it was. But he knew from a few letters that had reached him in Kovir that Dandelion had taken up residence in the city, and had opened a cabaret there. It seemed like a logical place to start. Besides, Cahir was looking forward to seeing a friendly face after the long years of his self-inflicted exile.

Fortunately, Dandelion’s subtlety did not diminish with age: the posters for Chameleon were all over the city and it took Cahir no time at all to locate the tavern. It was an early afternoon, the dusk crawling slowly along the city streets, but the place was already buzzing with conversation and music.

There was a group of young artists, each dressed more extravagantly than the other, swarming around the stage. Luckily for Cahir, only a handful of other customers sat at the tables. But a decade of hiding his identity turned some things into a habit, and he kept his travelling cloak on, his hood up. Now that he was so close to the imperial borders, he had to be even more careful.

He sat at the table in the darkest corner; a serving girl showed up beside him immediately.

“Is Master Dandelion around?” Cahir asked her, keeping his voice low.

“He should be here shortly, m’lord.” The girl gave him a quick smile. "May I tempt you to a bowl of our famous stew while you wait?"

The scents from the kitchen were promising, and Cahir enthusiastically accepted the offer. The girl was back a moment later, carrying a steaming bowl and a pint of ale.

"I'll let Master Dandelion know you were looking for him," she said with another friendly smile and was gone.

Cahir wolfed down the stew, which had blissfully nothing whatsoever to do with fish, and sipped the beer while looking around the place. He couldn’t help being impressed; small as the place was, it was clearly redesigned with arts in mind, and between the dark wood and rich tapestries it could rival many similar establishments both in Nilfgaard proper, and in Kovir. It was clearly a labour of love.

The commotion at the door drew his attention, along with everybody else’s: surrounded by another small herd of young troubadours, Dandelion marched inside. He looked much like Cahir remembered, and his behaviour changed even les: there was an air of a prince returning to his palace about him and Cahir had to hide a smile. It was reassuring to see some things stayed the same, despite the passing of time.

The bard and his little entourage moved towards the stage, where a vaguely familiar looking troubatriz seemed to be in charge. Cahir saw Dandelion talking to a few people before the girl who served him earlier approached the bard and spoke to him briefly, casting glances towards the corner where Cahir sat.

The bard straightened up and crossed the room in a few arrogant steps.

"I'm told you wish to speak to me. How may I be of help, my weary traveller?" the bard announced to the entire room and Cahir winced. This might have been a mistake after all.

"It's me," he said quietly, sliding the hood down a little. "Don't make a scene."

Dandelion frowned at him, then his eyes widened in recognition. He cast a quick look around, and straightened up even more.

"Your presence is not welcome in these premises, my good sir,” he declared aloud in an offended tone and grabbed Cahir by the arm, pulling him to his feet. In his surprise, Cahir let himself be dragged towards the door. “I must ask you to leave."

Dumbfounded, Cahir didn’t protest, but as he was unceremoniously pushed outside, the bard mouthed _“Back door._”

Cahir nodded, and turned to leave. He wandered the streets for a while to discourage anyone who might have been paying him any attention before he turned back towards the cabaret. With some difficulty he located an alley that lead to the back of the cabaret. Dandelion was there, waiting. He rushed Cahir inside, and into one of the rooms on the first floor; a spacious place with a large bed, a few chests, and a table, already set with more food and jugs of ale. Dandelion locked the door, then turned to him.

“Cahir the not-Nilfgaardian, I'll be damned,” he pulled Cahir into a hug and patted his back.

“Vicovaro, remember?” Cahir smiled, and the familiar routine made some of his tension fall away. “Good to see you too, Dandelion.”

The bard just grinned in response, and ushered him towards the table. Cahir threw off the cloak and sank onto a chair with a relieved sigh. Dandelion took a seat opposite him, filled their tankards with beer and sat back, studying Cahir.

“As glad as I am to see you, friend, shouldn’t you be very, _very_ far away from here?” he asked. “Had enough of the Koviri climate?”

"You might say that," Cahir said with a shrug, and changed the subject. "A lovely place you have here. Very impressive."

The bard beamed. "Coming from a man as well travelled as yourself, your opinion is precious to me. Geralt, for all his hidden talents, couldn't care less for art; at least Regis was suitably impressed.”

Cahir smiled. "How is everyone? The messages that made it to Kovir were few and far between. I'd love to see them all again."

"All’s well, as far as I heard.” Dandelion took a drink of his ale, turning wistful. “Those were both the most dreadful and the best months, weren't they.”

Cahir raised his own tankard in a silent toast. There was only one memory in the recent years he cherished more than the hansa days: the night after the horror of Stygga; a night of comfort, of fragile trust. A night on which he built all his hopes of redemption and forgiveness.

"I'm sure you've heard that our witcher is a proud owner of a Toussaintoi vineyard now," Dandelion said into his thoughts. "Who knew Little Weasel could be that generous—and that Geralt would accept such a reward. I am not entirely certain what Regis is up to these days; he was somehow involved in the Toussaint mess, but Geralt was unusually tight-lipped about that whole business.

"Milva settled somewhere in Temeria. I haven't heard much from Angoulême; last I heard she was roaming around Velen, no doubt wrecking havoc as she went." He waved his tankard at Cahir, spilling some of its content in the process. "And then there's you. What brings you back to these shores, my friend, against any reason and your best interests?"

Cahir took a hearty gulp of beer to buy himself some time, mulling over all the possible versions of the answer. The bard was watching him with a knowing look that Cahir didn’t like at all.

“Ciri stayed here for a few weeks during the winter,” Dandelion said, then chuckled as Cahir nearly choked on his ale. "_Koviri climate_, eh?"

Cahir took a careful breath, abandoning all the lies he had previously considered. “I thought… I thought she was gone for good,” he said quietly.

“We all thought that,” Dandelion nodded. “Then some five years ago she appeared out of nowhere here in Novigrad, and asked me for help with fixing a magical artifact. We ended up pulling off a heist together, and even going against the Church of Eternal Fire… Good times. Such a pity I can't turn our heroic adventures into a ballad.”

Cahir frowned at him. "You? A _heist_?”

“A long story for another time.” Dandelion waved his hand dismissively. “But I'll have you know I had it all brilliantly planned, and it's not my fault in the slightest that it didn't work. So. You really came back because of her?”

Cahir shifted uncomfortably. “I couldn’t simply sit in Kovir knowing she’s out here somewhere. I just… I want to see her again.”

“See her again,” Dandelion repeated with a hint of mockery. “And that’s worth putting your neck under an axe?”

“You’re a damn poet,” Cahir bit back. “You should know.”

“There’s poetry, and there are treason charges,” the bard pointed out somberly. “And I happen to know a thing or two about axes. I may be a poet but I'm also very fond of my head being attached to my body. This seems to be where we differ.”

“I spent a month stuck in a wooden coffin on the sea.” Cahir lost his patience. “I’m here now. Tell me what you know.”

Dandelion looked at him in silence for a few heartbeats.

“You and Geralt may have more in common than either of you are comfortable admitting,” he said eventually. “Ciri showed up a few days after Yule. She spent some of the winter in Toussaint before coming over here. She stayed for three weeks; did some jobs in the city, then left. I haven’t heard anything since.”

Cahir digested the news for a moment. "How is she?" he asked quietly.

Dandelion smiled. "She seems happy." He tilted his head, looking at Cahir with something like sympathy. "I should probably warn you—I almost didn't recognise her. The witcher girl is all grown up."

Cahir didn't reply.

"So," Dandelion put down his tankard, now empty. "What's your plan?"

"I don't know yet," Cahir admitted. "I hoped you'd know something. I left Kovir the day after I found out she was back."

Dandelion shook his head. "Forget what I said earlier: when it comes to foolish decisions, you and Geralt are the same." He fell silent. "I know she visited a few people while she was here," he said after a moment. "You could try Whoreson Junior—"

Cahir frowned. "I’ve heard this name in Kovir, in rather unpleasant circumstances. Do I really look so desperate to you that you’re sending me to talk to the mob bosses?"

Dandelion raised his eyebrows. "You really want me to answer that? Besides, you didn't let me finish. Whoreson is now our doppler friend, Dudu. All legal business, and a faithful member of the Church of Eternal Fire, too. He insists on telling people he saw the light; I keep pointing out it's a truly terrible metaphor—"

Cahir's frustration took over. "Anyone else I should try?" he interrupted the bard.

Dandelion huffed, but dropped the digression. "Ciri has a barmaid friend—or at least I _think_ she’s a friend? It's difficult to keep up with that lass. The place is called The Golden Sturgeon, but I don't know the maid's name."

“That’s all?” Cahir grimaced. "Not much."

"No," Dandelion agreed. "And if you had asked me ahead of showing up here unannounced, I would have told you as much. Has it even crossed your mind that you may be making a mistake?"

"It has, and often." Cahir shrugged. "But doing nothing would have been worse."

"What if..." Dandelion said slowly, "What if she doesn't want to see you? What if she doesn't want to relive the past?"

Cahir suppressed a grimace. This was his biggest fear and he did his best to confine those thoughts to some dark corners of his mind. It was too heartbreaking to consider such a possibility, even in order to prepare himself for this outcome. Dandelion's words bringing these thoughts into a stark light of the day felt like a punch to the gut.

"Then I'll know I have to move on with my life," he said with forced calm but from Dandelion's expression he knew the bard wasn't fooled.

"For what it's worth, I do hope it goes your way," Dandelion said, getting up. "I have to join my fellow artists now for the evening performance; I'd invite you to come and watch, but that's probably not the best idea."

"Don't worry," Cahir said, "I'm dying to get some sleep in a bed that doesn't move under me."

* * *

He left Novigrad a few days later. Neither Dudu nor Bea knew much about Ciri's plans and the only thing he managed to establish was that she was planning to travel west. He set off along the Pontar, keeping a low profile, stopping only in busy towns and villages where crowds of other travellers granted him some anonymity.

He had done all he could to change his looks over the past few years; he wore his hair much shorter than he used to, he grew a beard. But still he had to be careful. Nilfgaard might have been pushed back behind the Yaruga, with Dijkstra keeping Temeria and Redania in his iron grip, but Dandelion was right: the charges warranting a slow and painful death still hung above Cahir's head. Putting aside the vindictive nature of one Emhyr var Emreis, it was a fact well known that it was impossible to ever get the imperial pardon for treason. Even if the emperor had been overthrown, it still wouldn’t have guaranteed Cahir safety, and he was ready to bet a large fortune on the fact the lands he rode through were swarming with spies, and of both sides.

The necessity to keep as low profile as possible did not make his search any easier. Although he had no problems uncovering Ciri’s tracks, proving his initial worries to be unfounded, those tracks offered no answers. In every tavern he dared to stop in the folk had heard tales of an ashen-haired witcheress. The problem was, none of the tales were consistent, or formed any pattern that he could decipher. Where one town would have been alight with stories about a griffin hunt not six weeks prior, in the next village over nobody would have seen or heard anything for a year.

April turned to May, turned to June, and Cahir was no closer to finding Ciri than he had been when he had left Novigrad. He could see no logic to her moves, no path or a destination she might have been heading towards; the contracts she picked up also seemed chosen at random.

It was clear Ciri did all she could to cover her trails, and Cahir started to feel desperate. With no connections in these parts of the Continent, the whole quest began to look impossible.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And now there's you, undoubtedly driven by some chivalric values, risking your life for your idea of me. It cannot be safe for you here, so close to the empire and its allies. My esteemed father isn't exactly known for his mercy. _Why did you come back?_"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best Birbs of Beta: [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) and [ Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale).

* * *

Cahir stopped for the night in an abandoned coopers’ settlement just outside White Bridge. The blacksmith he had spoken to earlier today claimed that just a week ago he had fixed a piece of armour for a female knight who by all accounts had to be Ciri. This was the closest Cahir had gotten to catching up with her, and he decided to spend a few days in the area to try and find out more.

The night fell by the time he finished setting up a camp: a tarp spread between two poles in case of rain, a bedroll, and a small, bright campfire.

He was unpacking his saddle bags, his thoughts alternating between desperate hope and weary frustration, when, without as much as a sound to warn him, he felt the tip of a blade pressing between his shoulders. Before he had a chance to react, a voice he would have recognised anywhere spoke behind his back.

“You have exactly five seconds to tell me why you’re following me.”

He raised his hands for her to see.

“Ciri—”

“Three seconds.”

“_—it’s me_.”

The dagger eased off just enough for him to risk turning around, but he kept his hands well away from his own blade on his hip.

The glow of the fire lit up her features and a breath caught in his throat. Dandelion's words echoed in his mind at the sight of this daring, _beautiful_ woman standing before him. Much as he tried, he couldn’t stop staring; she seemed like an ideally balanced, deadly blade, with everything about her honed to perfection.

The feeble hope that a decade and a relationship or two was enough to get over his irrational infatuation with her withered away under the gaze of those impossibly emerald eyes as she studied him, her brows knitted into a frown.

“Cahir?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”

"Looking for you," he managed with some effort.

She sheathed her dagger, still looking at him suspiciously. “Are those other Nilfgaardians with you?”

“I’m not—” he began, then paused, frowning at her in confusion. "What other Nilfgaardians?"

"My friends here and there are telling me a few shady people are going around asking questions, and all of them just happen to have a touch of nilfgaardian accent," she said, her tone growing cold. "You wouldn't know anything about that?"

Cahir only shook his head, his mind spinning. This was decidedly not going the way he’d imagined. “I was in Kovir until this spring. When I heard stories and realised you were back, I came to find you—”

“Find me? And for what reason, pray tell? What am I to you, some kind of a peace offering?” Her eyes were blazing with anger and each word she threw at him cut like a knife.

“_No_! Ciri, I—”

“Missing home, were you? Want to go back and I’m your letter of passage? Is that it? Found a way to appease the emperor? What a coincidence, the Black Knight shows up just as Emhyr starts looking for me again!”

Cahir just shook his head, silently rejecting all her hurtful accusations, his heart bleeding. Dandelion was right: this was all a horrible mistake. How many times had they actually spoken, before today? What reasons would she have to trust him?

“I shouldn’t have come. I'm sorry," he managed eventually. The words tasted like ash in his mouth. “I won’t be bothering you any longer. Fare well, Ciri.”

He wanted to say more, but he could no longer formulate words. He took her in for the last time: those brilliant eyes of hers, her silver hair, her lips he had dreamt of for so long, now pressed in a thin, angry line. With a hollow ache where his heart used to be he turned away from the fire and grabbed his weapons. He was about to mount his horse when she spoke again.

“Cahir, wait.”

Numb, he turned back to her. She bit her lip, looked away for a moment, then back at him.

“Don’t go.”

He took a careful breath, quelling a sudden spike of hope. "If I'm imposing—"

“You're not,” she cut him off with a grimace, rubbing her forehead. “I'm sorry. I’ve become a little—paranoid over the years. Stay. Please."

Not trusting his voice enough to speak, Cahir simply nodded and went back to unpacking his saddle bags. Ciri disappeared in the forest, only to come back a few minutes later, leading her horse. She unsaddled the mare and busied herself with her sacks. When he joined her by the fire, she shot him a shy smile that almost undid him and handed him a bottle of wine.

“Geralt’s finest; I was saving it for a special occasion. There's some dried meat, too, but unless you have something more refined, this is going to be a lousy feast as reunions go.”

He took a solid gulp out of the bottle, his insides unclenching slowly, while Ciri kept talking.

“I really thought I was done with Emhyr; I didn’t expect to have to deal with him ever again. Then, not two months ago, my trusted contacts start telling me how a few Nilfgaardians are asking around for me—and now you show up out of nowhere. I may have jumped to conclusions.”

“Understandably." Helped by the wine, Cahir finally found his voice. “It's been nearly a decade, after all. I don’t know what kind of a welcome I expected, surprising you like that.”

“A kinder one, probably,” Ciri flashed him a smile and took the bottle from him, settling more comfortably against a tree. “Let’s start again, shall we? Tell me about that decade.”

He managed a smile of his own. “Only if you tell me about yours.”

Ciri snorted. “We’d be here for a while.”

“Now that you stopped screaming at me, I’m not going anywhere,” Cahir joked and was rewarded with a laugh that made his heart jolt.

She waved her hand at him. “Fine. But you go first.”

* * *

Ciri didn't finish her story that night, or even the night after. They were well inside Temeria’s borders by the time she was finally done retelling the tale of the years of pursuit by the Wild Hunt, travels through all the other worlds—an idea that was still giving Cahir a headache—the confrontation in Kaer Morhen, the battle on Undvik, and her witcher adventures afterwards. He found it difficult to believe half of those tales, but he knew that with Ciri's abilities, the likelihood of her exaggerating was slim to none.

"And that finally brings us to the day I found you," Ciri said, lying on her bedroll by the fire of yet another camp they set up deep in the forest. She stifled a yawn. "Told you it was gonna be a long story."

Cahir shook his head. "You went through more in ten years than most people in their entire lifetimes.” He fell silent for a moment, connecting the facts. “Were the people looking for you the reason you covered your tracks so well?”

Ciri nodded. “I jumped from place to place at random. It was a coincidence really that I was in White Bridge around the same time as you. They told me you were asking about me, they told me where you went. I decided to check what's what.” She smiled at him. “You were not what I expected to find, though.”

Cahir laughed, feeling lightheaded. He was getting dangerously used to spending his days with her, but he decided to worry about that some other time.

Ciri rolled onto her back, looking up to the sky.

"I'm getting soft," she announced. "I really miss my bed in Corvo Bianco."

Cahir smiled, throwing another log onto the fire and watching the flames shoot up. "How is Geralt?"

"He's good," Ciri's voice grew warm and affectionate, a tone he had never heard from her before. "It's so great to see him and Yennefer happy." She broke off for a moment, then added in a smaller voice. "It gives me hope."

"Hope?" Cahir repeated, turning to look at her.

"Of finding my own place, someday; a place to come back to," she said wistfully. "Both of them are misfits, and yet they found fulfillment in each other. I didn't think I would ever see them like that, enjoying peace and quiet." She shook her head with a small chuckle. "Well, relative peace anyway. Geralt talks about retirement, but he keeps taking contracts whenever people come to him for help."

"Which comes as no surprise," Cahir said with a smile.

"To everybody but him," Ciri agreed with a soft laugh. "He still wants to believe he will actually put the swords away, one day." She studied him for a moment. "What about you? Have you thought of settling down somewhere?"

"I tried," Cahir shrugged uncomfortably.

"What happened?"

_You _formed itself in his mind, but Cahir bit his tongue and went for the next most truthful answer.

"It's difficult to build anything on lies and omissions," he said quietly. "You're not the only one who grew a little paranoid over the years." He decided to steer the conversation away from the current subject.

“Speaking of,” he added, “Are you sure it isn’t just me who your friends were warning you about? I spent three months wandering along the Pontar asking questions. I was telling folk I needed to hire a witcher, but it couldn’t have been difficult to see through that lie if someone was paying attention.”

“I wish that was the case, I truly do,” Ciri shook her head. “But there was more than one person asking on two or three occassions. I have to assume Emhyr has a new idea for me, and I really don’t want to know what that entails this time. It seems I'm running out of time, again.”

Her choice of words and the sudden bitterness surprised him, but before he had a chance to ask any questions, Ciri got up. “Going to check on the horses. We’re still a few hours’ ride away from the Melitele temple, and I want to get there early.”

“I was wondering if you had any destination in mind,” Cahir said, then added with a smile, “Not that you made it possible to figure out.”

“Good. That was the plan." Ciri grinned at him, then her expression softened. "I want to visit people who helped me over the years, and I haven’t been there in forever. Get some sleep, we're setting off at sunrise.”

* * *

When they rode into the temple’s courtyard, they were stopped by a plump woman in a novice garb who examined them suspiciously as they dismounted.

“Welcome to the Temple of Melitele,” she announced in a tone of voice that was as far from _welcoming_ as possible without turning outwardly rude. “Are you here to pay respects to our Mother?”

“Indeed we are,” Ciri smiled. “Is Mother Nenneke around?”

The woman regarded them in silence for another moment before she gestured for them to follow. She led them through the quiet corridors and into the library, where an elderly woman sat.

“Mari, my memory may be going slowly, but you were supposed to be working in the garden right now,” the woman’s voice was stern, but the novice didn’t seem too bothered.

“These people were asking for you, Mother,” she said. She sent Ciri and Cahir one final glare, then she walked out of the room.

The priestess got up from the table and walked slowly towards them. She examined Cahir first, evidently decided he wasn’t important, and moved on to Ciri, who grinned.

“Hello, Mother Nenneke.”

Cahir didn’t expect the priestess to be able to move so fast. The next thing he knew, she was hugging Ciri tight, stroking her hair, touching her face.

“Sweet Melitele,” she managed in a trembling voice. “My girl. How long has it been? We worried ourselves _sick_ for you. So many times it seemed like you died...”

"Not if I can help it," Ciri laughed, a bubbly and carefree sound that cut right through Cahir’s heart.

Nenneke stepped back, letting Ciri out of her arms, then nodded at Cahir.

“And who is your companion?”

Cir turned to him, her eyes shining. “Do you remember my nightmares, Mother?”

Nenneke narrowed her eyes at her. “Of course I do.”

Cahir winced, but Ciri just smiled at him. “Turns out some of them weren’t that bad after all. This is Cahir.”

"I don't know why I'm still surprised. I really shouldn't be," Nenneke said with an air of exhaustion, and motioned for them to follow her. "Let's move somewhere more comfortable. You have a lot of explaining to do."

* * *

"Start from the beginning," Nenneke said, settled in a comfortable looking, worn armchair in a cosy study deep inside the temple building. Ciri opened her mouth, but the priestess raised her hand to stop her. "Not you. I know the most important parts, and you'll fill the gaps later." She turned to Cahir. "I want to hear how you got involved in this mess."

Cahir’s throat went dry and he suddenly questioned all his decisions in the past few months. Nenneke’s gaze didn’t leave any room for refusal; he had no choice but to start talking. All in all, it took a good two hours to placate her and Cahir had a strong suspicion she could rival the most ruthless imperial interrogators. With Ciri sitting silently beside him, he tried to leave out as many details as possible, especially concerning his motives, but the priestess seemed to have seen through all the omissions, and towards the end of his story her expression turned from suspicion to mild amusement.

"It's unwise to go against one's fate," she said eventually, satisfied, and nodded at Ciri. "And speaking of, how is Geralt? Got any more reasonable with age?"

Ciri chuckled. "Not sure that's the word I'd use. But he's an esteemed vineyard owner now, so who knows what will happen next. He may still surprise us all."

"Is Yennefer still in Toussaint with him?" Nenneke asked, and Ciri laughed.

"And here I thought I'd be the one to bring you all the news."

"I have my sources." The priestess smiled a serene smile.

Mari the novice came into Nenneke's study, carrying mugs of some herbal tea. "The supper will be ready soon, Mother," she said, ignoring them, and left.

"Does she hate everyone equally or are we special?" Ciri raised her eyebrows.

"Not everyone; just anyone who carries a sword and might potentially be involved with the Church of Eternal Fire," Nenneke said with a grimace. "We've had our share of troubles with them. Theoretically, the religious orders are outside of their jurisdiction, but those thugs are never good at theory. She'll come around. Tell me, what are you up to now?"

"Visiting people I haven't had a chance to see in a while," Ciri smiled. "What is everyone up to? Yola, Katya, Jarre?"

"Katya met a Nilfgaardian soldier during the war; she married him and moved to Nilfgaard. Yola contracted Catriona during the last outbreak and died, poor girl. As for Jarre…" Nenneke broke off and grimaced. "Jarre ran away to join the infantry during the Second War. A boy trained to be a temple scribe decided to grab a sword to fight for his princess."

Ciri’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. "Did he…?"

"He lived, the fool," Nenneke scoffed. "He lost his left hand and finally gained some reason, and also apparently a wife. I believe those two factors are related. He lives somewhere near Carreas. But enough of this for now, let's move to the dining hall; the supper awaits."

* * *

Ciri was silent for the rest of the evening; she ignored all Cahir's attempts at conversation and disappeared as soon as the meal was done. Cahir felt a cold uneasiness creeping in, but he made no attempt to find her. The last three months were enough of a proof that such a feat was only possible if she was in the mood to be found.

The night was warm and quiet, with no wind to stir the air. Cahir found a secluded bench beside the herb garden; the scent of lavender and sage enveloped him, but even the peaceful surroundings failed to calm his nerves.

He couldn't get over an eerie feeling that this was a calm before a storm. He didn't know what exactly shook Ciri so badly, but he suspected he would find out soon enough—

"Why did you decide to come back?"

He spun around to see her leaning against the dormitory wall. He had no idea how she managed to move so quietly.

"Ciri—"

"People keep making assumptions about me," she cut him off, her voice trembling slightly. "Then they go and make decisions based on those assumptions. Decisions that get them killed. I don't want any more blood on my hands—"

Her voice cracked; she looked away, took a shaky breath to compose herself. He was waiting for her next words, his own breath held, as everything in him felt out of balance. He wished he could see her eyes.

"And now there's you, undoubtedly driven by some chivalric values, risking your life for your idea of me,” Ciri continued, her tone stronger, as if she came to some decision, and his malaise gained definition. “It cannot be safe for you here, so close to the empire and its allies. My esteemed father isn't exactly known for his mercy. _Why did you come back?"_

"I—" Her words slammed into him with a delay and knocked the air out of his lungs. "Your _what?"_

Her lips twisted into a grimace, as if she bit into a rotten fruit. She closed her eyes briefly, then pushed herself off the wall and walked over to sink onto the bench beside him. She was silent for a while; when she spoke again, her tone was distant, detached.

"I grew up believing my parents died at sea. I spent my life on the run after Nilfgaard invaded and destroyed my home and killed whatever family I had left. Imagine my surprise at the revelation that my father is alive and well, and also the emperor of said Nilfgaard. He told me that himself, back in Stygga, before he let us go. I thought you knew."

Cahir froze, speechless and utterly unable to process this new piece of information. Through his bewilderment, a cold fury was rising.

“And all this time he was planning…” he managed through clenched teeth.

“Apparently,” Ciri shrugged.

His hands curled into fists, burning for something to punch, to rip apart, to destroy. While he was perfectly aware that the task he had been given all those years back wasn’t right by any stretch of imagination, he could never have imagined _this—_it was simply impossible in its ugliness; repulsive, vile.

Ciri reached out and touched his arm. Her hand felt small and cold.

“Don't,” she said softly. “This won't help me."

Cahir shook his head, and took a few deep breaths to get his feelings under some approximation of control.

"Was this…" he managed, his voice still shaking with anger. "Was this why he let you go?"

Ciri shrugged with forced indifference. "I have no idea. I don't know if he came up with a new and elaborate plan he no longer needed me for, or if he suffered a change of heart. I haven't had any contact with him since. Geralt told him that I died on Undvik, but he's a terrible liar, so I never fooled myself that Emhyr bought it. But he left me alone—until now."

Cahir sat motionless, not daring to look at Ciri. His anger was slowly abating; in its place a profound shame crept in.

“I'm so, so sorry,” he managed, each word an effort, each burning his conscience. “The things you've been through… And I played no small part in that. _I'm so sorry_.”

“You were following orders," Ciri pointed out quietly. "And you couldn't have known. Back then, nobody knew."

Cahir shook his head, the guilt choking him. “When de Rideaux was looking for someone to carry out a task for the emperor, I _volunteered_. It was an honour to be chosen; a secret mission, a chance to prove myself, to rise in the intelligence ranks. I was so arrogant and so eager to please him...” He broke off, unable to continue. He leaned forward and hid his face in his hands, fighting a sudden wave of nausea as the memories came rushing back. He struggled to breathe, fought not to get sick. If he had been successful in his mission—if he had brought her to the emperor—the man's own _daughter_…

Ciri's fingers touched his arm.

“You did prove yourself," she said softly and he flinched at the warmth he could feel behind her words, the warmth he did not deserve, not knowing the full extent of what he had been involved in. Ciri took his hands and gently forced them down; she searched his gaze, her emerald eyes kind. Distantly, he became aware of her thumbs stroking his fingers. "I likely would have died in the Slaughter if not for you. And then you joined Geralt in his search for me, throwing away everything you cared for.”

“No. Not everything,” he whispered before he could stop himself.

She smiled and gave his hands a gentle squeeze. “Anyone else would have used Geralt to get to me, to deliver me to the emperor. You deserted, abandoning your life for me. Stop blaming yourself.”

"I cannot…" Cahir stuttered. "I cannot expect you to ever forgive me… The Black Knight—"

"The Black Knight died on Thanedd," Ciri cut him off softly. "And I forgave you a long time ago."

Cahir curled into himself as a broken sob he failed to suppress tore free from his lips. He pressed a desperate kiss to her knuckles.

"If there's ever anything you need, anything at all—anything I can do to lift your burden..." he whispered in a rush of affection. He looked up at her not letting go of her hands. "I can't even imagine what you must have gone through after you found out the truth…"

Ciri looked at him for a moment, then something in her expression shifted; the mask of indifference slipped, her composure crumbling in front of his eyes.

"I'm mostly trying not to think about it, about all the things he's responsible for," she said, her tone wavering. "That's the only way I'm able to carry on. I couldn’t allow myself to dwell on his motives and his actions or I'd have driven myself insane." She took a breath trying to calm herself down. "But some nights I dream of my mother, and I wonder if she knew, I wonder if she figured him out. I wonder if that's why he—" Her voice cracked like a broken lute string.

Cahir pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. She let out a shaking sob, her fingers curling into his shirt.

"And there are those nights when I lay awake wondering what—what he was trying to achieve, what he was planning for me—" Ciri's words were now coming in waves of ragged breath and tears; a flood of pain and hurt she carried within her, like pus seeping from old wounds that would never heal. "I remember him; I remember _adoring him_. How could he? My own father? Cahir, _how could he_?"

Cahir held her against his chest, his hand in her hair as she cried in his arms, broken and desperate. A deep, dark hatred took roots in his heart as he stroked her hair without a word, as no words could bring her relief.

He didn't know how long they sat together; he closed his eyes and he just held Ciri, a gentle touch and his silent devotion all he could offer to soothe her pain. Eventually her tears stopped and she shifted in his arms.

"I'm sorry," she sniffled. "I don't know why I have to unload all these things on you everytime we meet…"

Cahir leaned back to look into her eyes, his thumbs gently wiping away the trails her tears left. "Because I was there through some of it? Because you don't have to explain your past to me?"

"That definitely helps," Ciri gave him a weak smile and took a breath to compose herself. "I just wish I could get some answers… But I'd rather _die_ than go see him."

"And I'd sooner kill him than let you do that," Cahir growled.

Ciri let out a hysterical laugh. "As if your treason charges weren't serious enough." She was silent for a moment, then looked at him, her head tilted. "You never answered my question, you know."

He frowned at her. "What question?"

"Why did you come back?"

Cahir took her in: her tear-streaked face, her eyes, sad but no longer haunted. "For this night," he whispered and knew in his bones it was the truth. For even if that was the end of their journey together, even if that was all he would have been given, it was enough; it was more than enough.

Ciri's smile lit up her eyes. "I'm glad you did. Thank you, Cahir, son of Ceallach. For this night, and for everything else."

She placed a soft, gentle kiss on his cheek and an old, festering wound deep in his heart slowly began to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have FEELINGS about the game endings. (_Boo boo Emhyr apologised in letters._ I'm glaring at you CDPR.)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I can take you home," Ciri said with a note of impatience as if her suggestion was something normal: a task as easy as a ride to the nearest village, not an act of magic that only she was capable of.  
Cahir was trying to process what she said, and failed. "How—why?"  
She grimaced. "You lost everything because of me. I'd love to give something back if I can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best Birbs of Beta: [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) and [ Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale).

* * *

It was an unspoken agreement that Cahir would head back to Kovir once Ciri decided to continue on her travels. But the sunny summer days rolled one into another, peaceful and filled with companionship, and Ciri seemed in no hurry to leave—and Cahir was certainly not going to raise complaints.

He had to force himself not to think about what was to come. The return to reality was unavoidable, and the heartbreak imminent, but dwelling on it would change nothing; instead, it would only sully whatever moments he had left with her.

In a way, those moments felt like one of his dreams: slow hours spent together, sunshine filtering through the leaves, the air heavy with the sweet scent of flowers, long evenings filled with birdsong. Ciri as he’d never had a chance to see before: relaxed, playful, happy.

What was also new was a delicate, tender understanding between them. For the first time that Cahir remembered he felt comfortable around Ciri; he wasn't tripping over his own feet, he wasn’t trying to apologise every second sentence, and could just be himself—to a degree, anyway.

They were in a small temple orchard, enjoying the morning sun and hiding from Mari's judgemental glares; Ciri sprawled on the soft grass, Cahir leaning against a tree, attempting to read. But the book lay forgotten in his lap and he was studying Ciri instead, committing each detail to memory for the long, cold winter ahead: her small, content smile, the way the wind tousled her hair, her fingers combing through the grass.

"I missed this so much," she said, pulling his focus back to the present.

"Doing nothing?" Cahir offered, amused. "That doesn't sound like you."

Ciri snorted. "Touché. Who knew it could be so enjoyable?" She shot him a quick smile, then turned wistful. "But no, not that. I missed being around people who know me. Nenneke remembers me as a bratty teenager; you know most of my past. It's such a relief not having to pretend, and watch every word."

"I forgot what that was like," Cahir agreed quietly. He'd made a few friends in Kovir, people he cared about and enjoyed spending time with, but telling anyone about his past was straight up asking for trouble.

Ciri nodded, as if she could follow his thoughts. “It gets so frustrating and lonely. Whenever I try to confide in someone, they don't believe me—or they start treating me differently. I don’t really have many people that I'm close with.”

“What about Bea?” Cahir probed carefully, Dandelion’s words ringing in his memory. “She asked me to tell you to show up in Novigrad soon, or she’d be mightily unimpressed. End of quote.”

Ciri chuckled. “Bea is a whole other story for another time. At least when I told her about the Wild Hunt, she didn’t become overprotective, unlike many others who suddenly decided I was a poor, fragile princess.”

“I wouldn't necessarily call you poor or fragile, not if I wanted to see another day," Cahir said half-jokingly, flexing the fingers of his left hand; it had never fully healed after Ciri sliced it open on Thanedd. "But you undeniably are a princess...”

"But they didn't know that," Ciri scoffed. "Besides, _please_—It’s been forever. I no longer remember what being a princess even means."

"Clean beds as a standard, for one. You mentioned you miss that, too." Cahir smiled and she laughed; a carefree, bubbly sound that tugged at his heart.

"Right. I must be getting old." She picked a long blade of grass and started playing with it, lost in thoughts; when she spoke again the amusement was gone from her voice. "The only other princessy thing I miss is the power to change things, to make the world a little better. The means to execute each and every witch hunter, for instance.”

Cahir yet again had to marvel at all the facets of her. “You’d have made a great ruler,” he said.

Ciri snorted. "This is a bold and questionable statement since I just mentioned executing people. You have far too much faith in the goodness of my heart. It may be for the better that Cintra is long gone.” She was aiming for nonchalance but her voice betrayed her, cracking at the last word.

Cahir studied her for a moment. "Do you ever wish it wasn't?" he probed gently. "Do you wish you could get it back?"

Ciri rolled onto her back and looked up into the sky in silence. Cahir was just about to start apologising for stirring up painful memories when she spoke in a small voice.

"Sometimes. I miss my grandmother. I miss the idea of a home. I spent so long running away I’m no longer sure I’d know what to do if I stopped. But it's not that simple: would I have my grandmother, but not Geralt, nor Yennefer? Would I know safety, but not my powers?" She shook her head with a sad smile. "Geralt tried to avoid me for years, and it didn't work out too well for him. I think that some things were always meant to happen, one way or another."

She turned her head and studied him. "How about you? Do you wish things had turned out differently for you?"

"Do I wish that I was still a clueless, arrogant tool of Emhyr var Emreis?" The bitterness seeped into Cahir’s voice despite his best attempts. He paused, then added, softer, "Do I wish I had never met you?"

"Meeting me cost you everything," Ciri countered. "It cost you your life. Your family."

Cahir jerked involuntarily. "I'm…trying not to dwell on this," he managed.

"When was the last time you saw them?"

Cahir struggled to keep his voice neutral. "My father once managed to bribe his way into the prison where I was held. I haven't seen my mother or my sisters since the first time I was sent to the North."

Ciri sat up, her eyes wide. "The Slaughter was fifteen years ago," she whispered.

Cahir just nodded, not trusting his voice enough to keep talking.

He closed his eyes, took a breath and released it slowly, his heart pulsing with dull, throbbing ache. He hadn't allowed himself to think about his family much. He knew he couldn't have done anything differently—and now, having learnt the truth, he couldn't even imagine any other outcome. But the idea that his parents thought of him as a traitor, as a dishonoured coward—the idea they might think he was _dead_—

"Do you want to tell me about them?" Ciri’s soft voice cut through his hurt, and pulled him back to the present. She was looking at him, those impossible eyes of hers kind and full of compassion, and Cahir felt whatever walls he tried to hold onto crumble down.

He never talked about his family. The people who had asked about his past hadn’t been the people he could fully trust. But now, with her, everything was different.

He sat in silence for another moment, gathering thoughts; Ciri waited patiently, her gaze never leaving his face, and the understanding in her expression finally cracked the dams.

He told her about the time he was six and, like a real knight, he used his wooden sword to save his baby sister from a particularly vicious goose. He told her about the day his family gathered to mourn his brother's death: he understood little, but his mother’s tears broke his heart as she made him promise to hate the Nordlings. He told her about his favourite fairytale that his eldest sister Braith read to him every night for years. He told her about a cloak his mother made for him herself, the one he had lost after Thanedd. He told her about the time his father came to his prison cell, where he was chained to the wall, starved and half-mad with guilt and hopelessness.

At one point Ciri moved to sit beside him. She was so close he could feel the warmth of her body and the delicate scent of rose oil she used. Her hand slid into his and he desperately held onto it as wave after wave of bittersweet memories crashed over him. When his words ran out they sat in silence for a long time.

He was so lost inside his head he nearly jumped when she spoke.

"Would you like to go see them?" She was looking up at him almost shyly.

He stared at her, unblinking. "What?"

"I can take you home," Ciri said with a note of impatience as if her suggestion was something normal: a task as easy as a ride to the nearest village, not an act of magic that only she was capable of.

Cahir was trying to process what she said, and failed. "How—_why_?"

"You’ll need to describe the place to me so that I can find it. It's tricky, but doable. I’ve done it before. As to why..." She grimaced. "You lost everything because of me. I'd love to give something back if I can." She gave him a small smile. "It’s a lot to take in, I know. Think about it—"

"Is it really possible?" Cahir cut her off, his voice shaking. "Is it not too dangerous for you?"

Ciri only shrugged. "We need to pick a place where our abrupt arrival won't attract attention. Please remember that going to Nilfgaard is much more risky for you than it is for me."

His heart was beating wildly, as if trying to wrestle free out of his ribcage. "What do you need?”

“Feelings, images; I need to be able to sense where I’m going.”

Cahir closed his eyes, forcing his feverish mind to quieten. He remembered Darn Dyffra: the narrow valley, the endless meadows and golden fields stretching all the way to the rocky slopes. The river like a ribbon of light, weaving between the willows. The small forest where they used to hunt; the mountains looming over the castle as if guarding the place. The thick stone walls of the keep, cool even in the summer heat.

He did his best to put his memories into words; Ciri listened, nodding to herself.

“You love the place,” she said with a soft smile. “This will make it so much easier.”

She jumped to her feet and extended her hand to him. He took it and got up too.

“Now…?” he asked, a knot in his stomach tightening.

“No time like the present, as they say,” Ciri said, her fingers wrapping tighter around his. "This may be a little uncomfortable."

She took a step closer and pressed her forehead against his. His thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind at the contact; he wanted to react, to acknowledge the unexpected closeness, but then the world around them shattered like a broken glass and a freezing, ink-black void swallowed them.

* * *

Cahir was more than certain he would never get used to teleporting with Ciri.

He hated the claustrophobic, disorientating darkness devoid of all light that felt like it was suffocating him. The only reason he didn’t succumb to sheer panic was Ciri’s presence, an anchor in the storm, and he clung to her for dear life. It was worse than being on the sea, and he welcomed with unspeakable relief the sensation of solid ground beneath his feet.

He barely took a breath when Ciri gave his hands a little squeeze and took a step back.

"Be careful," she said. "Don't let too many people see you."

"Are you not coming with me?" Cahir asked before he thought better of it.

Ciri shook her head. "The less your family knows, the safer it is for them. My presence would only invite questions and take away from your time together. Meet me here three hours after noon."

With that she disappeared in another flash of light, leaving only aching emptiness behind.

Cahir took a breath or two, trying to get rid of the lingering confusion, and focused on the task ahead. Ciri left them in the middle of a little clearing, but he knew the edge of the forest wasn't far. He started walking towards the spot where the trees gave way to the valley, taking everything in: the way the sun rays danced between the tall pine trees, the earthy scents he remembered so well, the song of the southern lark above him; all the sensations so familiar, and so dearly missed.

At the edge of the forest he stopped to take in his surroundings.

Everything about Darn Dyffra was almost as he remembered. There seemed to be decidedly less people bustling around, which was a little unsettling, but also worked in his favour. The castle walls loomed over the valley, intimidating as ever, its twin towers shooting into the sky.

He spotted what he was looking for: a well hidden path down the slope, all the way to the castle walls, overgrown with wild ferns that provided a welcome cover. He could hear the guards chatting and laughing on the settlements as he sneaked around the western tower to where the secret passage was, retracing his childhood steps.

The path was completely overgrown, nettles and brambles as tall as him, and his heart sank. If the passage no longer worked, he'd have to announce himself at the main gate and the whole idea of secrecy would be gone, putting everyone's lives in danger.

With effort, he pushed away the panicked thoughts and forced his way towards the wall and the hidden door, protecting his head with his arm, thorns catching in his cloak.

His thoughts shifted back to Ciri, as they always did. He couldn't stop thinking about the ease with which she acted towards him, and all her small gestures; it felt as if the distance between them was shrinking with every passing day. He wondered what it meant: was it simply her growing comfortable around him enough to treat him with the same warmth she seemed to have for other people she considered close, or—

Cahir shook his head, forcing his focus back to the task at hand. There was little point in obsessing over what was, and even less point in coming up with pointless fantasies of what could never be. There were more pressing matters he had to deal with.

It took him a while to locate the hidden door, and longer still to force it open. Nobody seemed to have used this passage in what looked like decades and fear trickled into his blood; but all the answers he needed lay ahead, and Cahir forced his feet to move.

The passage was much smaller than he remembered—where he would have run freely as a boy, now he barely fit. He lit the few torches that lined the wall as he passed them, trying to keep his breathing steady, to ignore the mindless panic looming at the edges of his consciousness; if he succumbed to his fears and lost control, this whole endeavour would be pointless.

He tried to focus on anything other than the confinement of the space around him, tried to think back to some happy moments, but then his thoughts inevitably turned to Ciri. He bit his lips so hard he drew blood and pressed on until he heard faint sound of a conversation. A wave of relief washed over him when he recognised his parents’ voices.

There was another set of doors at this end of the passage; he pushed against them but the doors would not budge. Driven by animalistic panic, Cahir doubled his efforts and they finally let go and with a loud squeak opened onto the familiar lounge room.

Everything happened at once: his mother’s muffled shout; his father’s jerking movement, Cahir ducking to avoid the dagger that was thrown at him.

“It’s me!” he stood still, his hands outstretched so that they could see he carried no weapons. “_It’s me_.”

There was a pause, then his mother let out a sob.

“Cahir…?”

He was beside her in an instant, dropping to his knees by her chair, kissing her hands. Crying, she pressed her lips to his hair.

“Cahir, my love… Have I gone mad? Am I dreaming? Are you really here?”

His father sank back slowly into the armchair he jumped out of a moment earlier. “If you are dreaming, so am I,” he said in a shaking voice. “My boy, you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Cahir half turned to him, not letting go of his mother’s hands, and the words spilled out of him like blood from a fresh cut, pained and raw.

“Father, I… I can’t tell you much, I wish I could, but you have to trust me; I am not...a deserter—not a coward… I just—I could not… I could not carry out what I was ordered to do...”

His father studied him for a long moment, and with each passing second Cahir's dread and shame solidified.

“I know it, son,” he said eventually and Cahir let out a shuddering sob.

The years of guilt fell off his shoulders and he struggled to breathe. He hadn't realised how much it was weighing him down, how much it was consuming him, until it was gone, until he saw the acceptance in his father’s expression, until his mother’s soft, gentle hands were in his hair. He fought to keep his emotions in check, not to break at the seams and fall apart before them. He hid his face in his mother's lap, trying to regain some resemblance of control.

“How is it possible, my love?” His mother asked quietly. “How are you here?”

“A—friend—brought me,” Cahir managed, lifting his head to look at them.

“A friend,” his father repeated with a wistful smile Cahir remembered so well. “Would that friend have anything to do with the situation you found yourself in?”

Cahir didn’t reply. His mother took his hands and searched his gaze.

“Tell us everything—everything you can,” she pleaded.

He nodded, then smiled at her. “Only if you tell me about everything I missed, too.”

* * *

His time ran out much more quickly than Cahir would have wanted; before he knew it, he had to leave to meet Ciri back in the forest.

His mother hugged him for a long time, crying; he kissed her hands and promised he would be back. When he turned to say goodbye to his father, he insisted on walking Cahir all the way through the secret passage.

Cahir’s uneasiness was back in full force as they walked along the narrow passage in silence; he couldn’t figure out what his father might have wanted to say that he did not want his mother to hear.

Just before they reached the concealed door, a hand on Cahir’s arm stopped him in his steps.

“Do give your friend my thanks, and my regards,” his father said quietly. "After what they dragged her through, I'm glad she avoided the fate that awaited her in the empire."

Cahir stared at him in the dim light of the torches, dumbfounded. “How did you—”

“You're forgetting I had access to most of the orders, as well as the reports," his father said with a small, satisfied smile. “When you disappeared, the rumours of your treason spread far and wide; I just could never reconcile them with how broken you seemed to be after your imprisonment.

“I started my own investigation, even though not one thing that happened made any sense: you fighting alongside the witcher in Stygga and being reported dead; the emperor coming back, alone, executing Skellen, and marrying that poor nobody girl. My dishonourable discharge—surely if you had been dead as the reports claimed, having me continue to serve would've been a far more adequate punishment?”

“I’m so sorry,” Cahir whispered.

His father only shook his head. “You did what you had to. I admit, it took me a while to fit all the pieces together. I assumed you were desperate for a chance to redeem yourself, but that didn't explain your actions at all—not until I realised it wasn't the emperor that you were craving redemption from."

“I couldn't—you don’t know half of it,” Cahir managed bitterly.

His father put a hand on his shoulder. “We have no say in what cards we’re dealt, only how we play them. All I ever wanted is for you to live by the values we tried to instil in you: honour, loyalty, courage. As proud as I am to see the person you grew into, it pains me that those qualities seem to have brought you nothing but suffering. I pray that the Great Sun will shine favourably on you in the future, my son. You certainly deserve it.”

Cahir just stood there, unable to articulate any response. His father unfastened his dagger from where he carried it on his belt and offered it to him, and Cahir's hands reached out for it before his stunned brain could catch up.

“But—isn’t it grand-grandfather’s…?”

His father smiled. “Indeed. Make sure it is used for the good.”

Speechless, Cahir allowed himself to be pulled into a tight embrace.

"Be well, Cahir,” his father said as he stepped back. “And may fate allow us to meet again, in happier circumstances."

* * *

Cahir stood at the edge of the forest, looking back towards the castle. His heart felt like it was about to burst, conflicting emotions fighting for dominance. His parents words echoed in his mind, evoking bittersweet images of everything he had missed out on over the years; the nieces and nephews he would never meet, the joys and sorrows he had not been able to share with those he loved.

But he also carried within him the memory of his mother’s loving smile, of his father’s words. Their understanding, and their support was everything he had been yearning for; everything he so desperately needed to make his lonely path bearable.

A little deeper in the forest the green light flashed, followed by soft steps, and a moment later Ciri came to a stop beside him. He turned to face her, not bothering to hide any of the internal turmoil; she took one look at him and without so much as a word she pulled him close, wrapping her arms around him.

His world shrunk to her embrace. With a shaky exhale he clung to her and allowed himself to be held, to be supported.

“Thank you,” he repeated over and over again, his face buried in her hair, tears he managed to hold back until now spilling out of his very soul. “You don’t know how much it means... _Thank you_.”

“It’s the least I could do to make it up for you,” Ciri murmured.

Cahir only tightened the embrace, drawing strength from her, her presence, her care. He couldn’t remember the last time he allowed himself to be so vulnerable. And now he was given this gift, and by _her_, of all people, the one person he cared for most in the entire world...

Once he got his emotions under some control, he took a reluctant step back. But his fragile composure shattered again at the sight of Ciri's expression, full of warmth and concern, and when she reached out and gently wiped his cheeks, he had to use all his willpower not to kiss her there and then, and keep kissing her until the stars died.

The only thing Cahir allowed himself was to take her hand and press his lips to her palm.

“Is everything fine at home?" Ciri asked gently.

He took a careful breath. “Yes. My mother and my sisters are well." He forced his lips into a smile. “My father sends his regards."

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Did you tell them…?”

Cahir shook his head. “I said nothing. He figured out most of it by himself—after the emperor removed him from the office.”

“Thank the gods it was only that; things could have gone much worse for him,” Ciri said with a grimace, then gave his fingers a gentle squeeze—he belatedly realised he never let go of her hand—and smiled. “Ready to go back?”

“Just… You were wrong, earlier, you know,” Cahir said; she raised her eyebrows at him and his smile came a little more natural. “I have just the right amount of faith in the goodness of your heart.”

Ciri shook her head, whether exasperated or amused he couldn't tell, and he had barely enough time to close his eyes before the void opened up and claimed them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had the scenes with Cahir's parents sitting in my WIP folder for eternity. I've only ever seen the idea of giving Cahir a closure in ["It Takes A Hansa"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9992441/chapters/22308803) by jikanet-tanaka, beautifully executed and heartwarming. It was certainly an inspiration for my own take on it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seemed that the day was not quite done surprising him yet. "Milva…?"  
The woman spun around and stared at him, eyes wide.  
"Cahir?" She crossed the room in a few brisk steps and threw her arms around him in a quick hug, her embrace every bit as strong as he remembered. "Can't be! How long has it been, eh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best Birbs of Beta: [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) and [ Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale).

* * *

Mari waited for them at the temple courtyard and Cahir swallowed a curse. After the emotional turmoil of the past few hours, he was not in the mood for dealing with whatever problem she had with them.

But the novice only nodded at them. "Mother Nenneke wants to talk to you. Please come with me."

Cahir exchanged a look with Ciri, who seemed equally baffled, and a little worried. They followed Mari to the library, where Nenneke sat by the large table; in front of her stood a blond woman with a bow across her back.

It seemed that the day was not quite done surprising him yet. "Milva…?"

The woman spun around and stared at him, eyes wide.

"Cahir?" She crossed the room in a few brisk steps and threw her arms around him in a quick hug, her embrace every bit as strong as he remembered. "Can't be! How long has it been, eh?"

"Too long." Cahir took her in. Her hair was a bit shorter than back when they first met, and there were more lines around her eyes, but otherwise she hadn't changed much. "It's so good to see you."

"Aye, and you." Milva smiled. She turned to Ciri and hesitated, but Ciri unceremoniously pulled her into a hug.

"Hello again, Milva," she said with a smile, taking a step back. "It seems the years have been kind to you."

"Milva brought some news," Nenneke said, then nodded to Ciri. "I thought your witcher experience might come in useful here."

Milva frowned at Ciri. "So the tales are true? You're a witcher now?"

Ciri gave her a smile. "Doing my best. What's happening?"

"Come sit, all of you" Nenneke said. "Milva barely started. Tell it from the beginning."

"I hunt in the forests 'round here," Milva began, a little hesitantly, after they were all seated around the table. Only Mari remained standing behind Nenneke's chair, and opposite the archer. "Have been for years. And for a while now...something’s happening in them."

"Something?" Ciri repeated.

"Aye," Milva shrugged. "Can't properly say. Is just… Feels different. The game acts different. And there are places where it’s like—” she broke off, shrugging awkwardly. “Evil. I tracked a deer once, right into a gully. An easy job, told myself. But there was—something—there. Can’t remember much, only some: pictures in me head, voices. Like it was pushing me away.”

Cahir saw Ciri frowning. She turned to Nenneke.

“Would you have any map of the area?”

Mari disappeared between the bookshelves and quickly returned carrying a scroll she then unravelled on the table between them.

Ciri nodded at the novice and looked at the map.

"Ellander is here," she pointed at the town. "Here's Ismena. Can you remember where those places are?"

Milva cast a quick glance up at Mari, a hint of blush on her cheeks, then lowered her eyes back to the parchment. "One was around two hours from where the river goes into a gorge. The other was only some hour into the forest, near Zavada. Can't describe the others, just places here and there in the woods."

"But you will be able to find them?"

"Aye," Milva shrugged. "I know these woods."

"Great, we can ride there together then," Ciri said and Cahir's heart sank. Was this the moment their paths would split? Was it now that he would have to say farewell to her, and everything he held dear?

"Need to visit a few places first," Milva said. "I can take you there the day after full moon?"

"There's an inn in Zavada the temple girls often use, _Wood Lark_ it's called," Nenneke threw in. "The owner is a friend and able to keep his mouth shut. You can stay there."

Ciri nodded at her and turned back to Milva. "Have you heard of anything happening? Anyone reported missing, or something similar?"

Milva shook her head. "I don't deal with townsfolk a lot. I hunt for the temple and few inns along the Traders' Trail. Didn't hear anything."

"Which doesn't mean much." Ciri bit her lip, looking at the map. Then she glanced at Cahir, her eyebrows raised. "We can go to Zavada and ask around while we wait for Milva to join us—assuming you are interested in doing some witcher work with us?"

"Sounds good," Cahir tried to stop the overwhelming relief from seeping into his voice.

"Great." Ciri turned back to Milva with a smile. "We’ll meet you there whenever you're done then."

Nenneke grimaced. "Spent too long in one place already, eh? Hold onto the map—and do be careful."

"Always am," Ciri shot her a grin.

"Sure you are," the priestess sighed with resignation. "And then I have to sew all the loose pieces back together. Off you go, kids. Dinner will be served soon."

* * *

The three of them were seated around one of the tables; a few young novices were rushing between the kitchen and the dining hall, carrying various plates and jugs of water.

Milva lay the bow down under the bench she sat on, and leaned against the wall with a content sigh. "Good to be back.”

Ciri beamed at her. “I can’t wait to tell Geralt we found you here.”

“How is the old wolf?”

“Making wine, and killing monsters in his leisure time.”

“Wine?” Milva repeated, incredulous. “Somethin’ finally hit him on the head one time too many?”

“He’s getting quite good at it, too, if you can imagine.” Ciri said with a grin that soon softened to a little smile as she studied Milva. "Tell me, how did you end up here?”

"Fool's luck." The archer shrugged. "Was looking for a place to stay; some drunk idiot was bothering a priestess in a town as I was passing by. Wasted an arrow shooting a bottle out of his hand. The priestess invited me here and suggested I hunt for them; then Mother Nenneke figured out I knew Geralt, and, well…" Milva shrugged uncomfortably. "She took me in. Properly, like. Now I live here in the winter. I learn, too, a little. Nenneke said I should. And Mari—and the novices help."

Ciri smiled. “That all sounds very familiar.”

"How long did you stay in the temple for?" Cahir asked Ciri.

"A few months," Ciri replied, turning wistful. "Geralt brought me here from Kaer Morhen; then Yennefer came to teach me magic." She fell silent for a moment. "This was the last place where I truly knew peace. From here we rode to Thanedd, and... You know the rest."

A fresh wave of shame and regret rose in Cahir’s chest; it must have shown on his face as Ciri nudged him with her elbow.

"Hey, we've talked about this."

Milva looked from Ciri to him, her eyebrows raised, but any comments from her were interrupted by the arrival of food.

There were finishing the meal when one of the young novices appeared by their table and asked that Ciri accompanied Nenneke in the priestess’ private quarters. Ciri shot them an apologetic smile and followed the girl out of the hall. Cahir watched her go; when he turned back to Milva, she was studying him with a knowing look in her eyes.

"Not much changed, eh? Still going after her?"

Cahir didn't answer. Considering the circumstances, he didn't really have to.

"Tell me what's new with you," he said instead, to steer the conversation away from the obvious.

"As you see." Milva gestured to herself. "All proper now. No more Scoia'tael commandos. No more dryads."

"And how is that working for you?"

"It was a good life, for a long while," she said. "Hard, honest work. But now that this devilish thing lurks in the woods..."

"We'll figure it out."

Milva shook her head slowly, her blond braid dancing on her back. "You know I'm no coward. But—" She grimaced. "Whatever it is, is bad."

Cahir nodded, fighting a vague unease. He might have been guilty of underestimating the danger now and then, but if Milva was this concerned, things didn't bode well.

She studied him, her head tilted.

"Tell me, how are you here? Weren't you in hiding in Kovir?"

"I was." Cahir shrugged awkwardly. "But I heard stories of Ciri, and I just… I couldn't sit on the other side of the Continent, knowing she was back—"

"What about the Blacks? Sure if they catch you—"

"I'll make sure they won't," he interrupted her.

Milva looked at him for a few heartbeats in complete silence.

"A strange thing, fate," she said. "Come, I should still have a bottle or three of mahakam mead. No use talking on a dry throat."

* * *

Cahir woke up and immediately regretted doing so.

His head was pounding. His mind was a disarray of confused half-thoughts and partial memories, generously sprinkled with regret, and his mouth felt like something had died in there a while ago.

The mahakam mead may have been a mistake, after all.

They talked well into the night. Milva told him about her life back in her part of the world, he told her about Kovir, and the last few eventful months.

The tales flowed as did the mead—a nagging memory suggested they flowed altogether too well. Of all the hansa members it was Milva he felt the closest to, and at some stage towards the end of the second bottle he dropped all caution and voiced certain hopes to her that he hadn't dared to verbalize before, even in the privacy of his own mind.

He groaned, burying his head in the pillow as more memories returned. This was bad. This was real bad. He had to make some contingency plans, once he could actually put some thoughts together.

The sudden knock on the door pulsed in his skull in tune with the throbbing, ever-present pain. He planned to ignore whoever that was, but the world in its cruelty had other plans for him.

"Cahir?" Ciri's voice called, and he let out another involuntary groan. The idea of anyone seeing him in such a state, least of all _her_… But her next words made him change his mind.

"I have food. And some pain medication."

If he hadn't already been a pathetic example of a lost cause, he would've fallen for her there and then. "Come in," he managed.

She walked in, carrying a tray. "Milva crawled out for breakfast some half an hour ago, looking only slightly better than you sound," she said, amused, putting the tray beside the bed.

Cahir grumbled something unintelligible, hiding his face.

"The pain suppressing potion is mild, but should help you get back to the land of the living." Her steps were moving away; he could hear the door opening. "Consider this a rescue mission. We have plans to discuss."

"You're too kind," he croaked.

There was a chuckle. "I may be developing a soft spot for you."

Cahir jerked up at that, but she was already gone, and the sudden movement almost split his skull in half. He grabbed for the tray, found the little vial and downed its contents, then collapsed back onto the bed waiting for the medication to kick in.

It took him another hour to get his brain in a reasonably working order. He still couldn't stomach much food, but after an entire jug of juice and a cold bath he felt less like death incarnate.

He found Ciri in the library, studying the copy of the map on which she marked Milva's observations. She gave him a smile.

"Feeling better?"

"Not much room left for feeling worse." Cahir grimaced. "Thank you," he said with emphasis.

Ciri's smile widened. "I'm glad you enjoyed your little reunion."

"A little too much." Cahir sank to a chair opposite her and gestured to the map. "What are your thoughts?"

"I'd ride to Zavada today and do some digging around while we wait for Milva to join us," Ciri said, looking back at the map.

He nodded with care, trying not to give himself another splitting headache. "When do you want to leave?"

"It's only about thirty miles and our horses are well-rested, and likely bored," Ciri said. "If we leave after noon, we should be there well before sundown, even at a leisurely pace. If there's something going on in the area, I'd rather not travel after dark." She raised her eyebrows at him. "Will you be able to ride by then?"

"At a leisurely pace, yes," he smiled and she chuckled. "Let me pack then."

* * *

They set off three hours later, carrying all the supplies Nenneke forced onto them. It was easier to oblige than to argue, so their horses now carried an extra bag of food each.

The day was mild and pleasant; sun warmed their backs as they rode, the horses clearly happy to be on the move again. The Merchants' Trail was weaving between the fields, crawling through the villages and the little patches of forest and Cahir relaxed, enjoying the slow pace. His mount also seemed happy to lazily stroll along the trail, quite unlike Ciri's mare. She kept dancing on the track, trying to speed up, impatient for some action.

"She's a beauty," Cahir said, admiring the sight of them both. "And seems to share some of your traits."

"I cannot imagine what you're referring to." Ciri pouted as she reined the horse in, and he had to laugh.

"Maybe the fact you both seem eager to be on the road?"

She snorted and was readying a response, but her mare launched into a brisk trot again. He nudged his horse to catch up.

"Do you have any theories as to what we'll find there?" He asked once they rode side to side again.

"A few," Ciri said. "A leshen is the most likely scenario, although some details don't add up. They're not normally evil by nature. I should have a better idea once I see the place." She turned to him. "And then I'll know if you and Milva can be of any help, or if you should stay away."

He scowled at her. "I'm not coming along only to let you deal with whatever it is on your own."

"I was trained in combat and monster lore, and while I don't have any actual witcher skills, I have the teleportation abilities," Ciri retorted. "There are quite a few monsters against which both of you would be helpless. If this thing turns out to be one of those, I'm not letting you risk your life." She glared at him. "This is not open to discussion."

"I'm not planning to discuss it, I'm planning to disagree." Cahir shrugged. "There are bound to be things we can do to assist you; if it looks as bad as Milva made it sound, I'm sure as hell not letting you face it alone. And that is not open to discussion, or disagreement."

Ciri looked at him for a moment, then shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. "I didn't realise you can be as stubborn as me."

"I prefer to call it common sense," Cahir shot back. "Three makes better odds than one, no matter the circumstances."

"Let's see what we're dealing with first," Ciri said.

Cahir smiled, quietly delighted with this small victory. He decided not to push his luck and changed the subject. "Tell me, what was your weirdest contract?"

Ciri grinned at him. "Placating me, eh? Fine; I'll allow it." She fell silent for a moment, thinking. "A missing girl case in Kaedwen was fun; her family told me a dragon had taken her. Turned out she ran away to look after said dragon as it was the last of its kind." She smiled. "It was also one of the rare occasions when a contract restored some of my faith in humanity, rather than completely destroy it. We are a despicable race."

"I thought you were happy on the path?"

"I love the freedom and adventure." Ciri's tone turned wistful. "But dealing with people can sometimes take all the enjoyment away." She shrugged. "Besides, my freedom looks to be coming to an end anyway if Emhyr's spies catch my scent."

"What will you do?" Cahir asked, trying not to let his heartbreak seep into his voice.

"Probably leave again, at least for a while." Ciri sighed, then she gave him a smile. "But I'm not gonna think about it till I have to; for now I'm going to enjoy this little adventure, and your company."

Cahir couldn't find a single thing to say that would not betray too much. Fortunately Ciri's mare chose that moment to act up again, sparing him the necessity to answer, and the subsequent embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really intimidated by the idea of trying to capture Milva's voice; I know her register inside out in Polish, but I didn't read much of her in English. I hope to give her justice, here and in the future chapters.
> 
> PS. Come back for smut on Sunday.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was no dream, no vision. She was real, she was alive, her body warm beside his, a few strands of hair plastered across her forehead, glistening with sweat. Those impossible eyes of hers were bright with joy and so, so close, and Cahir found it difficult to breathe. 
> 
> She was here, with him: safe, happy. And right in this moment, nothing else mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best Birbs of Beta: [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) and [ Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale).
> 
> Here begins what Kael referred to as Hozier smut. Enjoy. ❤️

* * *

Zavada turned out to be much bigger than he expected. The golden fields gradually gave way to pastures and farms, then to paved roads and low stone walls and houses perched along the narrow streets.

The town was buzzing with people; they had to dismount and lead their horses to get through the crowds. On the main square a market was in full bloom: traders loudly announced their wares, musicians played somewhere in a far corner, invisible but for the sound of the tune that carried over the ruckus; children were running between the stalls, chasing stray hens.

"I'd love to come back here," Ciri kept looking around, her cloak partially covering her face, her hand on her horse's neck in a comforting gesture. The mare stepped nervously, her ears flicking back and forth. "It looks fun."

"Too many people," Cahir murmured from under his hood. Ciri cast him a sympathetic look over her shoulder.

"According to the instructions Nenneke gave me, the inn should be this way." She gestured to the side lane leading blissfully away from all the commotion. "Let's hope they have the rooms; I didn't expect it to be so busy here."

They found the tavern in the southern part of the town. The owner was a bald, jovial man in his sixties, with an impressive beard and a friendly smile that only grew warmer at the mention of the priestess. He called over a stable boy to get their horses settled and invited them in, his attitude so open and friendly it made it difficult for Cahir to hold onto his distrust.

"Aye, I always keep a bed or two for the priestesses and novices. Not sure either of you qualify, truth be told," the innkeeper winked at Cahir, "But concessions can be made." He paused, and rubbed the back of his neck. "The only problem is, we have a celebration here; my little niece is to be wed later today. A good night's sleep might be hard to come by tonight, 'm afraid."

"We can go elsewhere, we don't want to be a nuisance—" Cahir started.

"Nonsense." The man weaved his words away. "Friends of the temple are always welcome. It may be a lil loud, is all. How many days are you planning to stay?"

"We're not sure yet. A few," Ciri said.

The man nodded. "Name's Ruben, by the way." He shook their hands, then looked from Cahir to Ciri, and raised his eyebrows. "Will you be needing two rooms?"

"Yes," Ciri said, and Cahir felt a blush creeping up his face; he was trying to avoid looking at her.

"Always good to check." Ruben shrugged with a grin. "Come, let's get you settled then."

"Now, we're busy tonight, so the attic space is all I can offer you," the man kept talking as he led them up the stairs. "The rooms are joint and very sparse, but you'll have the privacy, and a bed."

Cahir smiled. "That's all we need."

"That, and some food," Ciri threw in.

"Aye," Rubens stopped at the landing on top of the stairs and pointed at the twin set of doors. "Here we are." He opened one of them and gestured them in. "Make yourselves comfortable. We have some stew left from last night, come down whenever you're done, before the mayhem starts."

With that he left them alone. Cahir glanced around the room; the place was small and bare except for a bed in one corner, a wooden chest opposite it, and sitting atop it, a small wash bowl. A single window let in a little light, but the room was clean, the bed looked comfortable and it was all Cahir cared for.

"Looks cozy, and definitely beats sleeping in the forest," Ciri commented beside him, walked to a door on the inner wall and opened it. Cahir got a glimpse of an identical room on the other side. "Gonna drop my bag, and refresh myself. Will see you downstairs in a moment?"

Cahir nodded. "I'll check on the horses."

* * *

It was not half an hour later that they were sitting at the bar over bowls of thick, steaming stew. Around them, the serving girls were hurrying there and back, decorating the walls and tables with fresh flowers and garlands. Ruben was polishing the tankards behind the bar, and talking.

"We often have the temple girls staying here as they travel to or from Ellander—I'd like to think it's a safe haven for them." His tone softened. "Me and Nenneke go way back. Once, when we were both young, I was harbouring certain hopes, but…" he waved the cloth in an elaborate manner, his smile bashful. "Life had other plans. How do you know her?"

"I've only met her recently," Cahir murmured, focused on devouring the stew that was even better than the one he had in Dandelion's place.

"I lived there for a while, years ago." Ciri beside him smiled. "Before, well…" She gestured with a spoon, mimicking Ruben. "Before life had other plans."

The innkeeper smiled at her. "So you are the witcher's ward. When I saw you carry that blade on your back, I was wondering..."

Cahir cast a glance at Ciri; she was studying the man with narrowed eyes.

"What is it to you if I am?"

"That you're staying here for a few days, your sword at the ready," Ruben shot back. "Anything I should worry about?"

Ciri's expression thawed. "Not sure yet. We were only told there was something weird happening in the forest south of town."

"Weird how?" Ruben frowned.

"I don't know," Ciri said. "I need to see it for myself. Have you heard anything? Anyone reported missing?"

"I haven't, but I could ask around." The innkeeper looked at them thoughtfully. "But if I haven't heard anything, does that mean there's no contract...?"

"A favour for a friend," Ciri smiled.

Ruben studied them for another few heartbeats. "Tell you what, why don't you join us tonight? It's not like you'd be able to sleep anyway."

"Surely it's a family—" Cahir began, just as Ciri said,

"We couldn't—"

"Hush," Ruben smiled. "They didn't teach you it's rude not to comply with your host's requests? Off you go for now while we get the place ready. Be back at sundown."

* * *

Ciri disappeared after the meal without a word of explanation. A part of him worried about her, as always; but another part was quietly pleased to have a few quiet hours before the celebrations would start. His head no longer felt like it was about to split into two, but the prospect of a long nap was more than tempting.

The reason for Ciri’s disappearance became clear in the late afternoon. She knocked on his door, waking him up, and without giving him any time at all to gather his thoughts, stormed into his room, a whirlwind of blue and silver.

She clearly had gone back to the market, just like she wanted to, Cahir's hazy mind unhelpfully pointed out as Ciri swirled in front of his bed, showing off her new dress. It had a lovely, deep shade of indigo; with her silver hair down, trailing her movements as she spun around, she reminded him of a summer night's sky.

"Do you think it'll do for tonight?" She asked, stopping abruptly, the soft fabric hugging her figure and flowing in waves around her ankles.

Cahir's heart contracted painfully, for this should have been her life all along: a beautiful butterfly at the court, adored by her people—

"I had it altered a little so that I can carry a dagger on me, and that the sword belt sits better." She shot him a grin.

—or maybe not, Cahir decided, the daring notes in her tone making him reconsider his earlier assessment. Maybe she was exactly who and where she was meant to be all along.

"It will absolutely do for tonight," he said once he found his voice, then added, helplessly, "You look breathtaking."

Ciri beamed, then shot him a critical look. “You should be getting ready, we’re due to join the celebrations soon.”

Cold water on his face helped to get Cahir’s brain in a somewhat working order; he quickly changed into the only semi-elegant set of clothes he carried with him, then he hovered hesitantly at the door between their rooms, not wanting to intrude on Ciri’s privacy. But she waved him in, looking him over with an appreciative smile that made his cheeks warm. He straightened the black doublet he wore, suddenly deeply awkward and exposed under her gaze.

"You clean up rather well, indeed," she said, then dropped into a little curtsy. "Shall we, my lord?"

Cahir couldn't tell exactly what changed, but as Ciri weaved her hand around his arm, it felt as if the boundaries of the waking world thinned, the ground he was stepping on shifting underneath his feet.

"I don't actually know what titles you have," Ciri said as they walked the stairs together, her other hand lifting her skirt a little.

"None anymore; I was granted a title of a count, back in the distant past," Cahir said, then added with a quiet ache. "This doesn't feel real."

She cast him a hooded glance that made his heart stumble. "Which part?"

"Everything," Cahir gestured at them with his free hand. "The circumstances. The clothes. It all feels like another life." He paused, then added, with a hint of regret. "One that we both lost."

They got to the bottom of the stairs; just before they entered the dining hall, Ciri turned to him.

"Let's reclaim a piece of it tonight then," she said in a tone he couldn't identify. Before he could react, she placed a ghost of a kiss on his cheek. As he stared at her, dumbfounded and yearning, she opened the door and led him right into a whirlpool of music and laughter.

It felt like one of his dreams, Cahir thought, incredulity and a quiet, persistent, thrilling anticipation mixed.

They found a free table in the corner, a little away from all the ruckus. They barely had the time to sit down and get their bearings, when Ruben appeared beside them.

"Welcome, welcome!" The man beamed at them. "Here, the food will be served in a moment. I'll get you wine too; we got a shipment all the way from Toussaint."

"I'll pass." Cahir grimaced. The idea of alcohol still made his insides churn.

Ciri cast him an amused glance. "More for me then."

Ruben chuckled. "Indeed. Will you be comfortable here, or would you rather mingle a little?"

"We're happy here," Ciri smiled.

"Aye, so you are," Ruben winked at them, and nodded and the serving girls carrying the food platters. "There's your meal! Enjoy, and I'll catch you in a little while."

The selection was impressive for such an unassuming tavern: cheese and fruit, and a few types of grilled meats. Wine arrived a moment later; Ciri filled her glass and raised it at him with a grin.

"To the newlyweds."

Cahir only sent her a glare in response.

"You can have your revenge on me tomorrow when I'll be the one suffering," she said happily. "For now, we have a feast to enjoy."

They ate and traded tales back and forth. Ciri's playful mood was contagious, and soon Cahir found himself telling her appropriately exaggerated stories of all his misadventures, her laughter like music in his ears. But the vague sense of being one step removed from reality never left him.

They were enjoying a slice of the wedding cake, Ciri well on her way to finish the first bottle of wine, when a boy no older than sixteen appeared by their table. He straightened up and shuffled his feet, but his grin remained cheeky.

"Will the lady be willing to come and dance?" He recited.

Ciri laughed. "I might be convinced." She turned to Cahir. "Will you be joining?"

"I'll admire it from afar." Cahir smiled. "Have fun."

"Oh, I shall," Ciri sent him a grin and let the boy lead her to the centre of the room.

Cahir leaned back against the wall, watching her as the music started. Her partner was skillfully leading her in and out of various figures of increasing complexity, her silver hair swirling around in tune with the melody. Cahir saw her laughing as a more complicated passage sent her spinning across the floor, but she gracefully stopped and joined the line of the other dancers without breaking the rhythm. The shift in partners made her face Ruben, and she grinned happily, swirling around the floor with him.

She seemed like a wind, like a flame, an element incarnate, and Cahir's heart throbbed painfully as he admired the sight of her.

Out of nowhere, a memory of an old dream flashed in his mind, sharp and clear: Ciri dancing in a tavern, so sensual, so carefree and happy—and above her, a lingering shadow of death.

A profound sense of premonition washed over him, its grip of cold dread making it difficult to breathe. All of a sudden the purpose that brought them to this place felt sinister, and worse: personal; as if something was lurking in darkness, waiting to hurt Ciri.

She collapsed onto the bench beside him, out of breath, her wide smile full of delight, snapping him out of his gloomy visions. As Cahir took her in, it felt more and more like a mocking echo of his dream, all those years back. He struggled to quell his panic, overcome by a visceral need to protect her, to shield her from whatever evil forces were at play here.

“You should have joined me,” Ciri nudged him with her shoulder, oblivious to his mood.

This was no dream, no vision. She was real_,_ she was _alive_, her body warm beside his, a few strands of hair plastered across her forehead, glistening with sweat. Those impossible eyes of hers were bright with joy and so, so close, and Cahir found it difficult to breathe.

She was here, with him: safe, happy. And right in this moment, nothing else mattered.

His hand shook as he reached out and put a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers ghosting over her scar. Her eyes were locked on his, dark-green like a stormy sea. In a surge of mad courage he gently lifted her chin and leaned closer, his breath held; when Ciri didn’t pull away, he crossed the last distance separating them and kissed her, claiming those lips equally eager to smile and to pout, the lips he had been dreaming of for nearly half of his life now.

He felt a hint of hesitation that made his blood freeze—but that was gone almost immediately; the next thing he knew, she was deepening the kiss, all tongue, teeth and impatience, her arms around his neck, their breaths mingling. After a considerable time he forced himself to break the kiss, but he couldn’t let go of her, couldn’t bear to separate from her, not even for a moment, not ever.

He cupped her face in his hands, his forehead touching hers, her name on his lips like an incantation, a prayer. “Ciri, Ciri…”

She leaned back with a little smile. “Should we continue this elsewhere?” She suggested in a low voice that took his breath away.

"Are you certain?" Cahir no longer trusted himself; his emotions were an overwhelming mix of relief and awe, disbelief and desire, his soul burning with the need to feel her, to reassure himself she was here.

Ciri's hand moved to rest on his chest. "Why, are you likely to change your mind?"

"Never," Cahir breathed. She had to feel his wildly beating heart; there wasn't much he was able to hide from her anymore.

Her fingers curled into his doublet and she pulled him in for another kiss. "Good," she whispered against his lips. "Then let us make ourselves scarce."

She took his hand and pulled him to his feet, then led him across the room and up the stairs. Cahir followed her as if in a trance. His hands were trembling, his head spinning with fizzy joy despite not touching drink all evening.

It was happening. This was too incredible for his mind to fully process.

Once in his room, she barely gave him the time to kick the door closed before she dragged him into another hungry kiss.

Cahir was trying to hold onto some threads of sanity, but it was proving difficult with Ciri's hands fumbling with the buttons of his doublet, surprisingly swift and efficient; soon she was pulling it off his shoulders, her hands running up his bare arms.

She gave him no time to react; she pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top of him, her eyes sparkling with want and mischief both. She kissed him again, her scent intoxicating, the waves of her hair falling around his head like a soft curtain separating him from reality.

But being idle was the very last thing Cahir wanted. It took effort, but he managed to get some resemblance of control; he grabbed her at the waist and rolled her over. Ciri laughed, the sound like birdsong, bubbly and delightful, and he had to pause at the sight of her, carelessly sprawled beneath him.

Her hair was a cloud of silver, her eyes burning emeralds; his heart pulsed with aching wonder as he leaned in and kissed her, a little slower this time, and then traced the line of her jaw with his lips.

“I've been dreaming of this for too long,” he breathed into her ear, relishing in the feeling of her body shivering under his fingers. “Now that by some miracle you're here, I am not going to rush this.”

Ciri chuckled; a low, husky sound that reverberated in his entire body. She reached out and touched his face, running her fingers down his cheek.

“This is all well and good,” she murmured. “But make me wait too long and I'll make you pay.”

“Duly noted,” Cahir whispered, his lips against the skin on her neck, and a sigh escaped her. She weaved her fingers in his hair, and he had to bite back a groan.

He focused all his attention on her, her whispers and soft moans guiding him. His lips trailed along the cleavage of her dress, his hands tracing the lines of her waist, her breasts, her hips through the thin fabric.

Ciri let out an impatient sound and sat up to unlace the fastening of the dress, but Cahir stopped her.

"Allow me," he whispered.

Without a word, she turned her back to him. Cahir moved closer, gently put her hair over her shoulder, exposing her back. As his fingers slowly loosened the velvet string that held the bodice closed, he made sure to kiss every bit of her exposed skin.

She leaned back against him, her head resting on his shoulder, and when he nibbled on her neck, she let out a shuddering exhale. He slid the dress off her shoulders and down to her waist. His hands ran up along her sides; Ciri arched into his touch, her demands clear, and he obediently caressed the soft skin of her breasts. He rubbed his thumbs against her hardened nipples; she let out a moan, then abruptly turned and kissed him, pushing him back onto the bed.

Her fingers danced on his chest, her lips and tongue and teeth on his skin, and Cahir struggled to control himself. When she slid her hands to his waist to open his breeches, he couldn't help bucking his hips up into her touch.

He was so hard it nearly hurt, and when Ciri stroked his cock with a lustful smile, it took all his restraint not to come all over her hands. His body felt wound up like a spring, the smallest touch driving him insane.

He sat up abruptly, gathered her dress and pulled it off over her head, pausing for a moment to admire her. But she was having none of this, impatiently tugging at his pants, and he wriggled them off, then rolled over to kiss the soft skin of her thighs, and she moaned his name, urgent, demanding.

Cahir slid one hand up her leg while the other rubbed her clit. Ciri jerked up with a low whine, and when he slid his fingers into her, she started moving her hips to increase the friction.

"Cahir." She demanded, reaching out and pulling him towards her; the sound of his name in her voice thick with desire nearly undid him. "_Please_."

He had just enough sanity left to stop and search her gaze.

“Is it—”

“It’s fine,” she breathed, kissing him. “All fine. Safe. Now—”

He didn’t let her finish, crushing their lips together, his hands on her hips as he claimed her, the world shattering around him.

He lost himself completely, forgetting who and where he was; there was only her and this hot, dark madness, her touch, her moans, her skin under his fingers, her legs wrapped around his hips. The feeling of being one with her was everything he dreamt of, and more; their bodies, their selves melting together, again and again, in a rhythm as old as time.

Her breath was coming in gasps, his thrusts drawing moans from her; she shuddered under his fingers, her body arching off the bed, his name a cry on her lips, and he couldn't stop himself anymore. He abandoned all control and slammed into her, breathlessly repeating her name, and as his release crashed over him, a muffled scream tore out of his very soul.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "If I recall correctly, the last time we saw each other I promised you a proper _thank you_. I hope that qualifies." Grinning, Ciri poked his chest with her finger. "Besides, I didn't feel defiled enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Best Birbs of Beta: [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) and [ Kael](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeltale/pseuds/kaeltale).
> 
> Hozier smut continues.

* * *

Ciri's fingers on his cheek and lips brought Cahir back to reality. He opened his eyes slowly, only to see her leaning above him with a small smile. If it had been up to him, this was what he would have wanted to wake up to, always.

“Hi,” she said softly.

He cupped her face and pulled her down for a slow, sweet kiss.

“Hi back,” he whispered against her lips.

Ciri snuggled to him, her head in the crook of his neck and Cahir had to wonder at how perfect she fit against his body. He wrapped his arm around her and kissed the top of her head, relishing in the simple fact that he _could_.

"This adventure and your company turns out to be even more enjoyable than I expected," Ciri murmured.

Cahir laughed softly. "I'm glad you think so."

He pressed his face into her hair, memorizing her scent. From the moment he kissed her, he couldn't stop touching her, not even for a moment. He had spent so long reliving such scenes only in embarrassing dreams that he felt compelled to keep reassuring himself that this was real—that _she_ was real, and truly here with him.

"Did you have this in mind when you suggested we should reclaim a piece of our lives?"

Ciri lifted her head to look at him with that familiar smirk of hers. "More or less. Although for the record, I was planning to drag you away yesterday, after we came back from our little trip to Darn Dyffra—but then you decided to get wasted with Milva instead. Still, better late than never."

Cahit felt his cheeks growing hot. "You were _what_?" he managed eloquently.

"I told you I developed a soft spot for you." Ciri placed a quick kiss on his lips. "And some admiration, too; it takes a special sort of perseverance to pursue me. Not many people have your patience."

Stung, Cahir turned to his side to face her. "I was in no way expecting this," he said with urgency, catching her gaze. "I was hoping to earn your forgiveness, to get over all the guilt and maybe move on, finally. I didn't come all the way from the other side of the Continent to _bed you_—"

"Shh," Ciri put her fingers on his lips and his heart lost its rhythm. "I know. Which is one of the reasons we're here now. If you had given me the slightest indication that fucking me was what you were after, we wouldn't have been having this conversation, and definitely not in these circumstances."

Cahir relaxed, and kissed her softly. "I won't lie: I'm extremely happy about the circumstances," he murmured and Ciri laughed.

"Hey, I'm not complaining either."

She rolled onto her back, but her hand remained in his as she weaved their fingers together. She was silent for a while; then she said quietly, "You wanted to know about Bea, earlier."

"You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to," Cahir murmured, still trying to get over everything she had just insinuated, over the fact she was planning to pursue this herself—

"We were lovers at one point," Ciri said, turning her head to look at him, her voice just a little sharper. "But there were too many things I couldn’t share with her, and that put a damper on things. But we remain close friends. I adore her."

Cahir's already confused mind slowly digested this latest piece of information and all its implications, and he wondered if he cared—and found in his heart that he didn't, really. As long as her hand was in his, the rest did not matter in the slightest.

"She figured me out right away." He smiled at the memory of the feisty barmaid. "I think she pitied me. I can't really blame her."

"She's good, all right." Ciri chuckled, a fleeting sound that quickly died as her expression turned guarded. "No comments on curing me of my twisted, deviant urges?"

Cahir frowned. "Do you truly think so little of me? I know the Northern attitudes are much worse; in Vicovaro it may not be very common, but its not unheard of to have a partner of the same sex."

"Sounds like a nice place," Ciri murmured.

"The empire isn't all bad," Cahir said quietly. "I sometimes wonder what the world would have looked like if Nilfgaard had won the war."

Ciri snorted. "Progress by force? Such a cheerful concept."

"Because the pyres for nonhumans are so much better?" Cahir shot back.

She rubbed her face. "Don't even get me started. It makes my blood boil. Still, I am physically unable to cheer for Nilfgaard's conquest."

"Understandably," Cahir cupped her cheek. "And just so you know, if there is anything you wish to share, for whatever reason, I'm here. But otherwise, I don't care who you were with, and why."

"That succubus totally doesn't count then," she said, and his brows shot up. Of course; he should have expected that.

Ciri laughed at his dumbfounded expression. "Don't you know witchers have a reputation? I had to work hard to fit in…" She gave him a grin and a nudge. "Fine, fine, not _that_ hard. Although Eskel, Geralt's friend, does have rather impressive stories, if you're ever interested."

"I'll pass." He grimaced. "All the ballads about Geralt's love life are enough."

"Fair." Ciri chuckled. "I did meet a succubus in Toussaint, actually; she was very sweet and sensible. Most sentient, so-called monsters can usually be reasoned with—unlike most people."

"Spoken like a true child of a witcher who befriended a vampire." Cahir smiled, when a sobering thought hit him.

Ciri noticed the shift in his mood and gently touched his cheek. "What is it?"

"Geralt is going to murder me." Cahir sighed. Then he took her hand and kissed it. "At least I'll die happy."

Ciri smiled. "Come on, he's not that bad."

"For you, maybe; but you're not the one on trial here for defiling his daughter," Cahir pointed out sourly.

Ciri smirked; the sparks in her eyes made his breath hitch. She pushed herself up to lean over him.

"_Defiling_?" she purred, her fingers trailing along Cahir's cheek and down onto his neck and chest and every nerve in his body flared up.

He reached out and weaved his hand in her hair, flowing down in silver waves, as he struggled to gather thoughts.

"Wait," he managed, using the opportunity to speak while he was still able to formulate words; he had the distinct impression this was about to change very soon. "Do you think they expect us back?"

But Ciri's lips were now following the path her fingers took and Cahir's mind tumbled over itself.

“I'm sure they're doing just fine without us,” she murmured against his skin.

Cahir could barely process what was happening. He didn't dare to acknowledge the reality in which Ciri's lips and tongue kept lazily trailing down his body, her fingers never stopping their fleeting caresses. And when her hands slid down to his thighs, his eyes slipped shut and his breath died on his lips: there was _no way_ she would—

She was _a queen_, for heavens’ sake—

And then she took him in her mouth and any coherent thought was lost to him. He was hard again in an instant; her lips and tongue circling along his length, making him wild with want. This was infinitely better than anything he fantasised about, as he would never have dared to assume—

A sound that escaped him was half a grunt, half a wail, as her tongue expertly circled around his cock in a slow, sweet torture. He weaved his fingers in her hair and used all his willpower not to thrust right up into her mouth, the way he was burning to. She was making small, satisfied sounds in the back of her throat, and the realisation she was _enjoying it_ nearly tipped him over the edge.

“Ciri…” he moaned, and then, because it felt indecently, deliriously good to say her name while her mouth was wrapped around his throbbing cock, he repeated, only this time it came out as more of a plea, “_Ciri…_”

She raised her head, and his heart stopped at the sight of her: flushed, dishevelled, _his_.

“You seem to be enjoying this,” she cooed, her hand now stroking him in rhythm with her words and Cahir struggled to hold onto any scraps of sanity. "But if you'd rather go back to the party, I'll understand…"

He whined in protest; she shot him a smile, placed a kiss on his abdomen, and went back to sucking out sounds he was certain he'd never made before.

His vision blurred, his breath escaping in rasps, the combination of sensations, sounds and sights far too much for him to last any length of time at all.

Desire washed over him like a tidal wave, the pressure building up, making everything spin. He was lost inside his head, so tightly wound up he could no longer make a sound, he could barely breathe, focused only on _her_—

"Cahir." Ciri's low whisper cut through the haze, grounding him, catching him, releasing him. "_Let go_."

He came blindingly with a pained cry, shaking, gulping for air. He was faintly aware of Ciri holding him; her soft voice came as if from a distance, an anchor, a light guiding him home.

* * *

“_By_ _all the_ _gods_, Ciri,” he managed when he came to his senses. She was curled up beside him, with her arm wrapped around his waist and her head resting on his chest. Those playful green sparks were still there in her eyes as she looked up at him.

Lost for adequate words, Cahir pulled her closer and kissed her, pouring all his feelings into the kiss. He felt her smiling, her fingers gently caressing his cheek. She leaned back a little.

"If I recall correctly, the last time we saw each other I promised you a proper 'thank you'. I hope that qualifies." Grinning, she poked his chest with her finger. "Besides, I didn't feel defiled enough."

Cahir just shook his head at all the ways in which she was being completely inappropriate, impossible, _breathtaking_. His mind was filled with sugar cotton, his thoughts stumbling clumsily over one another, all the words he couldn't say burning on his tongue. He pulled her for another kiss to give himself a moment to get his head in a working order.

"We cannot allow that," he attempted a meek joke.

“I'll hold you to your word,” Ciri chuckled, settling with her head in the crook of his neck again, her arm wrapped around his chest.

He took a careful breath, closing his eyes, the warmth of her body beside him like a burning fire; giving comfort, but ready to destroy everything in an instant if he wasn't minding it carefully.

For Cahir wasn't fooling himself. She might have enjoyed his company, might even have cared for him to some extent—a soft spot, she called it. But he knew with absolute certainty that if he was to burden her with the entire weight of the devotion he'd been carrying within him for the past decade, it would have been the last he would've seen of her.

Not that he harboured any hopes of hiding what he felt. But as long as the words weren't spoken, weren't let out into the world, weren't acknowledged, they could both pretend the feelings weren't there.

The problem was, those feelings were undeniably _there_. As Ciri allowed him to see glimpses of herself in these few weeks now that he’d spent with her, his stubborn love for her only deepened, grew roots. That love was now seeping into his each gesture, into every expression.

And since he could do little to suppress it, he decided on a different approach.

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressed soft kisses to her each finger separately, then to the inside of her wrist. A sigh escaped her lips; she lifted her head and Cahir kissed her, a slow, sensual kiss; a promise, a question. In response, her lips parted for him, her fingers waving into his hair.

His hands danced on her skin in feather-like caresses as his lips moved to her neck. Her breathing quickened, the fingers in his hair curled, pressing him against her.

But Cahir didn’t let her impatience affect his intentions. He had been far too preoccupied with his own desire and the profound sense of incredulity before, half-expecting her to disappear at any given moment. Now he was making up for it.

He marvelled at the perfection of her collar bones, with the little dip between; his lips worshipped the swell of her breasts, the softness of her belly, his hands explored the spellbinding curve of her hips. It was like a new land he was discovering, full of wonders, with his fingers drawing a map of her sighs.

He rolled her nipple with his finger and took a delight in her moans. He sucked on the hard tip, his other hand gently trailing down her body. Her eyes were closed, her hands clutching onto him, her fingers digging into his skin.

"Cahir, please…" she breathed, bucking her hips up into his touch. "_Please_…"

He kissed the trail down her ribs, cherishing the feel of her body shivering under his touch as she wriggled and whined, a low and needy sound.

"Patience, beautiful," he whispered, his teeth grazing her skin, and Ciri took a sharp inhale, her eyes flying open, wild with want.

"I can't," she panted, "Cahir—"

She let out the most delicious groan when he settled between her legs to kiss a path up the velvety softness of her thighs; a groan that turned into a muffled scream as he ran his tongue over her clit.

"Gods!" Her fingers were back in his hair, pressing him into her; but once again he didn't let her set the tempo, and instead continued the slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. She was cursing and pleading and moaning and he was committing each and every sound to memory as he allowed himself the luxury of wordlessly—_loving_—her.

When he finally sucked on her bud of nerves, simultaneously slipping his fingers into her, she arched off the bed with a loud cry. His fingers moved in and out slowly, his tongue circling around her clit. She was pushing her hips into his touch, increasing friction, her skin glistening with sweat in the moonlight. He felt her trembling and sped up, meeting her halfway, his fingers curling inside her, and she came with a scream, her body shaking in violent spasms.

Cahir pressed a kiss to her thigh before he pulled himself up to gather her in his arms, limp like a rag doll and spent, as she slowly came down from the high.

He kissed her hair, his heart full to the point of bursting. "You're gorgeous," he whispered.

Ciri took a few shuddering breaths, clutching to him.

"Sweet mother," she managed, her voice hoarse. "Am I allowed to keep you?"

Cahir's own breath faltered but he forced himself to sound casual. "For as long as you wish, Ciri."

She turned her head just enough to press a soft kiss to his cheek before she snuggled close again.

“I hope you don’t mind me sleeping here with you,” she murmured, “as I have neither the energy nor any desire to move.”

Cahir didn’t trust his voice enough to respond. When she drifted off to peaceful sleep in his arms, he held her and fought his own drowsiness. He didn't want to fall asleep, didn't want to waste any second he could be spending feeling her slow breath on his skin. He was afraid to wake up to a cold, empty bed—to a cold, empty reality.

But despite his best attempts, the tiredness won, and he soon slid into a deep and dreamless slumber.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The ealdorman is a liar and would sell your bed from under ye, but he’s still miles better than the last scumbag we had,” the barmaid cut in.  
Cahir shook his head. "That's difficult to imagine."  
"Tis the truth." Una declared with conviction. "Is it about the missing kid?"  
Ciri spun around to look at her. "What missing kid?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witchering commences, with a heavy dose of fooling around, because Ciri.
> 
> Beta for the chapter by [meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir). <3

* * *

Cahir woke up alone.

He jerked up, his heart beating wildly, his hand reaching out to the empty space beside him, long cold.

Ciri was gone.

His breath hitched as his mind turned into a whirlwind of panicked thoughts. Why wasn’t she here? Did she regret the events of last night? What if something happened to her?

Was last night even _real?_

He cast a quick look around and was relieved to see her things still lying around in disarray; a sign he wasn’t completely losing his mind. He fumbled out of bed, rubbing his eyes and trying to steady his breathing. There was no need to panic yet—

"Good morning."

Ciri’s voice carried through the open doors separating their rooms, and the relief knocked the air out of his lungs. As he made it to the door on unsteady legs, and he was rewarded with a sight of Ciri sprawled in a large wash tub, her head leaning back, a subtle scent of lavender and bergamot hanging in the air.

She opened her eyes and extended her hand to him. "Get in here while the water is hot."

Cahir didn't need to be told twice; he slid into the scented foam opposite her. He relaxed, the scalding water working wonders on his muscles, and rested his head against the thick wooden edge.

"I could get used to this," Ciri murmured casting him an appreciative smile. "We need to thank Nenneke for the recommendation."

She slid her legs between his, trying to get more comfortable in the shrunken space, and Cahir felt warmth spreading within him that had precious little to do with the steaming bath.

"Was this Ruben's idea?" Cahir asked, struggling to focus on anything else other than her.

"No, mine," Ciri said. "I found him downstairs, in better shape than I'd have expected. I'm not entirely sure what his grin was meant to signify when I asked to arrange it, but I decided not to inquire."

"Probably for the best," he murmured.

“I thought the preparations would wake you up, but you were out cold, so I decided to leave you be.” She sent him another smile, then leaned back with a content sigh.

He looked her over, feeling hesitant and awkward. She seemed perfectly content and at ease, but for him, these were quite literally unknown waters. He was a good few steps past whatever his subconscious had dared to project over the years. The happy haze he existed in last night faded in the cold light of the day and he found himself facing this impossible reality where her naked body was casually pressed against his, feeling completely at a loss as to what he was allowed to say, or do.

As if sensing his unease, Ciri glanced at him, her eyebrows arching up in a question. "What's wrong?"

Cahir took her hand and kissed it. "I’m finding it hard to believe this is real."

Ciri watched him for a moment, her head tilted; then she pushed herself off the tub edge and moved to lean above him, her hands resting on both sides of his head. Transfixed, all Cahir could do was to devour her with his eyes: her skin glistening in the sunlight coming in through the small window, her wet hair plastered over her shoulders and breasts in patterns he was yearning to recreate with his lips.

"Can I do anything to convince you?" she asked innocently.

Before he even remembered what words were, she silenced him with a kiss.

She caressed his face; with her touch she chased away every stray thought that he might have had. Her nails grazed his chest, her lips on his skin a promise of pleasures still unknown. There was no way he could remain idle, either; his fingers followed all the paths already explored and new, learning her, memorizing her. Her sighs were like music, like the wind.

Her eyes were a bottomless sea of green, locked on his as she straddled him; her soft moans like a mermaid’s song that lured him out into the unknown, and Cahir lost himself in her, again and again, and he wanted never to be found. And when she arched back, trembling around him, the tide of her pleasure swept him up and carried him—falling, flying—and crashed over him in a wave of release that drew a cry from his lips.

He lost track of time. The water around them cooled down significantly but Cahir didn't feel like moving. Ciri lay in his arms, her finger drawing some complicated symbols on his chest; he stroked her hair slowly, relishing in the feeling of peace.

He kissed the top of her head.

"If this is how you are going to address my doubts about the nature of reality, I plan to remain incredibly doubtful," he murmured into her hair.

Ciri chuckled and raised her head to look at him. "There's always the traditional method," she said as she slid her fingers down his sides and dug them into his flesh.

Cahir jerked violently, splashing water all around them to the sound of her laughter.

He grabbed her wrists, dragging them away from his vulnerable spots, and glared at her. "Don't. You. _Dare_."

"Can't promise anything." Ciri beamed and placed a quick, playful kiss on the tip of his nose that melted his heart. "Come, let's clean this mess and do what we came here to do."

With that, she wriggled free of his hold and climbed out of the tub. She dried her hair with a towel and then wrapped it around herself, depriving him of the alluring sight.

"Give me a chance to wash first," Cahir pointed out with a smile.

"Ah, true; you were otherwise occupied." Ciri shot him a grin. "Mind if I watch?"

"Has anyone told you you're impossible?" He felt his cheeks growing warm and he ducked to locate the soap on the floor to hide his embarrassment.

"Not in a while; nobody had either the reason or the guts," she said, sitting down on the bed to comb her hair.

As he washed, Cahir forced his mind away from _her _and towards the purpose that brought them here. He had no experience with monsters related mysteries, but he did have some experience in investigation—it was nice to think that his wretched past would finally come in useful.

"Where do you think we should start?" He asked, climbing out of the bath and drying himself.

"It would be best to wait for Milva and let her show us what she found," Ciri said, fishing out a fresh set of clothes from her saddle bag by the bed. "But we should ask around, too; someone might have noticed something unusual. We just need to be careful not to draw too much attention to ourselves."

"We could find and question the local herbalists," Cahir suggested. "They often know a lot about their area; in a settlement this big, there should be at least one. The folk are likely to have someone nearby they go to first before they start bothering the priestesses."

Ciri paused, halfway dressed, and looked at him with a strange expression. "That tone suits you well," she said.

"Old habits, I guess." Cahir shrugged uncomfortably. "I did spend a few years going through the ranks of imperial intelligence."

"And you were doing very well by the sound of it," Ciri said with an unexpected note of bitterness. "Until something got in the way of your career..."

Cahir fixed her with a stare. "You know my thoughts on this, and in great detail," he said pointedly, then smiled. "I'm happy to discuss our past again if you wish, but for now, you should get those pants on, _my queen,_ as we need to get some information—"

He narrowly avoided the towel Ciri threw at him.

* * *

The tavern was already busy when Ciri and Cahir made their way downstairs. The wedding guests occupied most tables in small clusters, harbouring various stages of misery. There was some chatter, but it was mostly subdued; the only source of noise were a couple of kids happily chasing one another with their typical indifference to the suffering of grownups.

Ruben was weaving between the tables, chatting with people. He beamed upon seeing them and gestured towards an empty table in the corner. The nearby window was open, letting in a soft breeze and the morning light; a cat was asleep on the bench, basking in the sunlight.

Ciri dropped her cloak on the far side of the bench and immediately slid onto a spot just beside the sleeping cat, her back towards the window, soaking up the sun. The breeze ruffled her hair and Cahir couldn't help a smile.

“You look just like this cat,” he said, amused, as the cat in question woke up, assessed the situation, stretched and without further ado climbed onto Ciri's lap.

"Good morning," Ruben's voice rang behind Cahir. “I see that you met Her Grace.”

Cahir glanced at Ciri, but she only smiled and scratched the cat behind her ears. Ruben put two portions of porridge in front of them; the smell of the food made Cahir realise how starving he was. He enthusiastically dug into the contents of his bowl, ignoring Ruben, who perched on the edge of the bench beside him.

“I hope you enjoyed last night,” the innkeeper said, his tone landing somewhere between warm and mocking.

“It was a lovely party,” Ciri said sweetly, stroking the cat that curled up comfortably on her lap, purring loudly. “Thank you again for inviting us.”

“You're most welcome,” Ruben shot back. “And just so you know, you can give up that second room anytime you want.”

Cahir choked on the spoonful of porridge, readying a scathing response, but Ciri just winked at him, then turned to the innkeeper, utterly unfazed.

"We like having the options,” she announced and Cahir did his best to breathe. “Besides, isn't that against your best interests?"

_"Ouch."_ Ruben laughed, his hand flying to his heart. "You saw right through me, witcher. I'm just a nosy old man. Comes with the job." He patted Cahir's shoulder as his smile turned genuine, devoid of the earlier mockery. "I meant nothing by it. It's good to see some joy in this rotten world, for a change.”

With that he got up and joined other guests, leaving them alone. Cahir turned back to his breakfast, but the look on Ciri's face stopped him.

"What is it?"

Under the table, she gave him a nudge with her knee. The cat on her lap expressed her disappointment at being disturbed, and Ciri scratched her behind the ears to placate her.

"I don't have much honour left, you know,” she said, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "And whatever's left of it isn't worth defending."

Cahir frowned. "It's not your honour—or not entirely, anyway," he admitted in response to her raised eyebrow. He paused, trying to put his feelings into coherent, yet still vague words. "It's just… Everything that happened… It's precious to me."

_You're precious to me._ He lowered his gaze and gave his porridge a few stabs with his spoon. Ciri's hand sneaked across the table, her fingers wrapping briefly around his wrist.

"You have ways of reminding me what kind of person you are. It’s quite unsettling."

Her tone was joking, but there were hints of warmth there that took him by surprise. But when Cahir looked up to catch her gaze, she was already busy trying to eat while simultaneously petting the cat.

They finished the meal in comfortable silence. At one point Her Grace decided she had blessed them with her presence for long enough and abandoned the spot on Ciri's lap in favour of wandering among the tables, looking for food offerings. She was immediately spotted by the kids who started chasing after her.

Freed from her duties, Ciri turned and leaned against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her on the bench. Somewhere behind Cahir, a delighted shriek followed by a pained cry indicated the chase had been partially successful.

"I might check the notice boards around the town," Ciri said, absent-mindedly playing with her spoon. "It's usually a good source of knowledge about what's going on in the area." She shot him a grin. "Not to mention a great source of entertainment from time to time."

Cahir let out a short laugh. "I can imagine. Is there anything in particular you want me to look into?"

Ciri tapped the spoon against her lips in thought. "I wonder if it's safe for either of us to talk to the Zavada's ealdorman."

"I've never been here." Cahir shrugged. “No reason for anyone to recognise me."

"Just come up with some good lie," Ciri suggested with a smirk.

“With my record, I'm afraid you're overestimating me.”

Ciri chuckled and jumped to her feet; she grabbed her cloak and threw it on, adjusting the hood. Cahir turned to watch her, trying to quell the irrational fear for her.

"Be careful." The words slipped out against his best attempts, and better judgement.

"Always am," Ciri cast him a quick smile from under the hood and he just shook his head.

"We both know that's a blatant lie."

Ciri circled the table and stopped beside him; her hand cupped his cheek and gently lifted his head. She leaned forward and kissed him, ignoring everybody around them, and Cahir fought the overwhelming need to pull her into his embrace and never, ever let her go.

“I'll meet you here later," she murmured and was gone.

* * *

Finding the ealdorman proved to be more difficult than Cahir had thought. The village hall was empty; he asked around and found the man’s house, but nobody answered the door there either. Unsure what to do, he walked back towards the market.

The village seemed much quieter than the day before; there were maybe half of the merchants at their stalls calling out to him as he walked past. He was barely glancing at their wares, trying to get a feel for the place, when an explosion of colours caught his eye.

He walked towards the stall that drew his attention and was immediately ambushed by an elderly woman, looking like some exotic bird, dressed as she was in a loud combination of pinks ,oranges and greens.

“Welcome, welcome!” She beamed at him and took his arm, her grip like iron, allowing no maneuvering space. Cahir had no choice but to let himself be dragged closer to her stall, where woolen pieces lay in piles of all the colours of the rainbow. “Did you see something that you like?”

“I don’t know yet—”

“Oh, you will surely find something to your liking. I have a shawl of every type and in every colour you might possibly want,” the woman cooed. “Is it for someone special?”

“Very special,” Cahir said quietly. With his free hand he reached out and ran his fingers along a piece in deep emerald. There was a pattern running across it, but with the way it was folded, Cahir couldn’t really see it properly. “What about this one?”

“Excellent choice!” the merchant exclaimed. Having secured Cahir’s attention, she finally let go of his arm and reached out and unfolded the shawl. “It’s made of the wool of the rare Haakland mountain goats. It’s incredibly fine and soft, but very warm. And look at the motif…”

Cahir stopped listening almost immediately—there was a gorgeous, intricate pattern reminding him of peacock feathers running along the entire length of the shawl and repeating over and over; the colours were a combination of splendid emerald and cobalt blue, two shades he had always associated with Ciri. The wool was the softest he had ever seen and the craftsmanship was undeniable.

“How much?” he asked in awe.

“Two hundred fifty crowns,” the woman said quickly, and Cahir shook himself out of the reverie. He frowned at her.

“That’s the price of a decent piece of armour—”

“But it is not a piece of armour that the woman you love needs, is it?” The merchant cut him off with a sly smile.

“She might actually prefer a breastplate, for all I know,” Cahir said with a sigh. “Hundred and fifty.”

The merchant let out a gasp of disbelief, theatrically covering her mouth. “That doesn’t even cover the materials! Two hundred and forty is the most I can offer.”

Cahir looked around the market. “It’s very quiet today,” he mused. “I wonder how much business are you going to attract? Hundred and sixty.”

“It’s that blasted Gwent tournament in The River Inn.” The woman scoffed. “Gambling is dreadful for honest business. Two hundred and I’ll give you a pearl pin extra.”

“Agreed,” Cahir smiled. The merchant grinned at him with delight, wrapped the shawl carefully into a cotton cloth and handed it to him.

“The pin is inside. I hope your beloved likes it.”

“I do, too,” Cahir fished out the coins, paid and turned to leave when an idea occurred to him. He looked back at the merchant. “Would you know if the ealdorman is at that tournament?”

“I’m sure he is,” the woman’s lips twisted in a grimace of disgust. "All the useless bastards are there.”

“And where is The River Inn?”

“Follow the street leading east, and you will soon find it.”

“Thank you,” Cahir offered her a smile, tugged the small, soft package under his cloak, and walked in the indicated direction.

It took him no time at all to find the inn; even without the merchant’s instructions, the noise clearly marked its location. The inn had a large roofed porch; a bunch of children clung to the balustrade, peeping in. Under the roof, a group of men gathered around a table covered with cards. Judging by the heated comments, a game was in full swing.

“Sulik, the fuck you think you’re doing, passing now?” The man with an impressive mane of red hair snarled. “You think I put my money on you because I like you or somethin’?”

The player—Sulik, apparently—half turned towards the redhead. “You lost five rounds ago, Sammie, so why don’t you fuck off and get me a beer?”

“And me,” his opponent threw in, studying the cards on the table.

The redhead swore under his breath and walked inside. Cahir leaned against the wall, observing the game and the small crowd, trying to identify the ealdorman. There were eight men surrounding the two players. The seemingly eldest of them, a man of a sizeable height and long, white beard, was watching the players with a sly expression; three were arguing loudly, the other four jumped in with strategy suggestions, one worse than another.

In short, none of them inspired an ounce of confidence in Cahir.

Seven moves later the game was over, Sulik delivering a winning attack to the delight of half of the crowd. After the coins exchanged hands, Cahir decided to interrupt.

“Gentlemen, I’m looking for the Zavada’s ealdorman,” he said approaching the group. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“Depends who’s asking,” The white-bearded guy turned to him with a scowl, shoveling his winnings into his pouch.

“I’m just looking for some information.”

“Information doesn’t come cheap in these difficult times.” The man spat on the floor, then turned to the rest. “Can any of ye make yourself useful and get me a drink?”

“There seems to be something dangerous happening in the woods,” Cahir said, trying to quell his annoyance. “Did anyone come to you? Do you know if anyone saw or heard anything?”

The man turned to him, his brows in an irritated knot. “The fuck am I supposed to know? Do I look like a fucking witcher that they would come to me?” A whiff of ale hit Cahir; the man narrowed his eyes at him, his sly expression returning. “What is to you anyway? Why are you sticking your nose in our business? Is there a coin to be made on this?”

“No,” Cahir spat, wondering if this was what Ciri and Geralt had to deal with on a regular basis. “I’m just looking for information—”

“Fucking knight-errant," The ealdorman cut him off. “Go annoy somebody else.”

Cahir struggled to keep his temper in check. "Thank you. I won't be bothering you anymore."

"Good," the ealdorman waved his hand, shooing Cahir away. "Fuck off to Toussaint and stop wasting my time."

Cahir's hands curled into fists, but he forced himself to walk away. There was no point in arguing, and he couldn’t exactly punch that sly face, much as he was itching to do just that.

He walked for a while, picking direction at random; only once his anger and frustration abated a little did he head back to the Lark.

* * *

When Cahir got to the inn, Ciri was already there, chatting to a girl behind the bar. He surveyed the room as he walked over to where she sat, but the tavern was quiet; there was only an elderly couple eating at the table in the far corner.

"Tell me you had more luck than me," Ciri said, turning to him as he joined her.

He slipped onto the stool beside her and shrugged the cloak off, nodding at the barmaid, who smiled at him and went back to cleaning the bartop; she didn’t bother pretending she wasn't listening to their conversation.

Una was her name, Cahir remembered; he was hoping Ruben's staff was as trustworthy as the man himself, but even if that hadn't been the case, it was a little late to do anything about it.

"Nothing?" he asked Ciri.

"Oh, plenty." Ciri snorted. "Yulia is a lying rat, the sawmill is looking for workers, and the blacksmith hopes that whoever stole his goat gets pox and dies. But nothing helpful."

"Not much luck on my end either, unfortunately." Cahir couldn't help a grimace. "The ealdorman is an asshole who’s just looking for ways to get some cash."

"Sounds typical alright," Ciri nodded.

"Alek is a liar and would sell your bed from under ye, but he’s still miles better than the last scumbag we had,” Una cut in.

Cahir shook his head. "That's difficult to imagine."

"Tis the truth." Una declared with conviction. "Is it about the missing kid?"

Ciri spun around to look at her. "What missing kid?"

"It's probably nothing," Una said with hints of satisfaction at securing Ciri’s attention. "My friend's son said his friend didn’t show up in Zavada like he was meant to. But the kid isn't from here, so he may just be home, safe and sound."

"Can we talk to your friend's son?" Cahir threw in.

"Can't see why not. He's normally hangin’ around the alchemist' shop by the Southern Gate with other kids, hopin’ to earn some coin."

Ciri shot him a smile. “Looks like we may have a thread to follow, finally.”

"You're best to go there in the morning if you want to catch the kids," Una added. "They’re likely runnin’ the errands now."

Cahir frowned. "If that boy is missing, I don't think half a day's delay is a good idea?"

Una shrugged. "Like I said, it's probably nothing. But if you want to go now, let me at least get you food."

With that she disappeared in the kitchen. Taking advantage of the moment of relative privacy, Cahir fished out the little parcel and put it on the bar top, in front of Ciri.

"I saw this and thought of you," he said with a smile.

Ciri cast him a curious look and gently unfolded the wrapping. She inhaled sharply, and touched the soft wool with reverence.

"It's beautiful," she murmured. "Must have cost you a small fortune. You shouldn't have—"

"This is but a fraction of what I wish I could give you," Cahir blurted out before he could stop himself.

Ciri looked at him for a long while as he silently panicked and cursed his outburst. Was this where he crossed the line? Was this too much?

But as Una walked back in, carrying their food, Ciri leaned over and placed a fleeting kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you," she murmured. "For this, and for everything else."

* * *

They set off less than an hour later and found the right place with no difficulty. While the Southern Gate turned out to be a set of utterly unremarkable wooden doors leading out onto the Merchants’ Trail, the alchemist's shop more than made up for it; the building was made of some dark, exotic wood, with intricate wrought iron windows. A golden guild sign above the door moved with a faint creaking sound in the soft wind.

Ciri looked up, taking it all in. “Now we know what Dandelion’s shop would’ve looked like if he had pursued science.”

Cahir failed to stifle a laugh. “I wonder which part of your remark he would've found more insulting."

Ciri sent him a grin and opened the door. A bell rang as it opened onto a fancy lounge area. She looked back at Cahir, rolling her eyes as he followed her in.

They didn't have to wait long. The owner of the establishment appeared from the depths of the house, all pomp and smiles, wearing a ridiculously elaborate golden robe.

"Welcome, welcome," he cooed, gesturing them to follow him into the next room where shelves full of glass bottles filled the walls from floor to ceiling. "What can I help you with? What piece of alchemy wonder are you after?"

"None, I'm afraid," Ciri smiled and the man scowled at her, his overly friendly demeanor faltering. "We'd like to chat to the kids that are working for you. We hope they have some information that might help us."

"Help you with what, exactly?" The alchemist's tone now matched his expression.

"We've heard of something potentially dangerous in the woods," Ciri said, studying the man, her eyes narrowed slightly. "And your helpers may be able to shed more light on this. Apparently one of the kids went missing?"

"_Missing. _Adorable." The man snorted. "They go missing all the time. Show up one day, then disappear for weeks. I wouldn't be looking for anything of value from that lot."

"They are _children_." Ciri’s voice was ice-cold.

"A bunch of lazy, unreliable, greedy bastards, that's what they are."

Cahir's patience for Zavada's elite was already low, and the conversation was using up whatever was left of it. "But if one is truly missing, if there is a danger in the forest, you are risking their lives—"

"Like anyone cares what happens to one brat or another." The alchemist waved his hand. "Their folks can always go and make another one if they need help around the household."

Cahir's self-control snapped. He grabbed the man by the front of his ridiculous cloak and dragged his face inches away from his own.

“Name of the boy who disappeared, and his friend,” he hissed. “If you’d be so _kind_.”

The alchemist recoiled, his eyes widening, which gave him a vaguely amphibian look. “A-Anti. And...Emil…I think…Please, sir, I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did.” Ciri stepped closer. “Where do they live?”

“He-here in Zavada,” the man managed, his eyes darting between Cahir and Ciri. “And in—in Linden, I believe… E-Emil should be here to-tomorrow—”

Through his rage, Cahir registered Ciri’s hand on his shoulder.

"Let's go," she said softly. “We won’t get anything else here.”

Cahir gave the alchemist a final glare. "You will let no kid go into the woods until we figure this out," he snarled before releasing him.

The man nervously straightened his robe and stumbled back into the back room, out of their sight; Cahir fought the overwhelming need to go after him.

“I hate this place,” he murmured, following Ciri outside. "Is it always so bad?"

"Not always." Ciri pulled her hood up as they started back towards the Lark, choosing the side lanes and narrow alleys in an attempt to avoid as many townsfolk as possible. "But often enough." She shot him a glance from under the hood. "I'm not sure what you did counts as not drawing attention to ourselves…"

Embarrassed, Cahir rubbed his forehead. "I'm sorry," he said with a grimace. "That was unnecessary—"

Before he knew what was happening, she had him pressed against the nearest wall, her breath hot on his neck.

"Oh, it was absolutely necessary," she murmured, claiming his lips.

Cahir's mind spun, his senses on fire, his hands trembling as he reached out to cup her face. He let himself sink into the sensation, into _her; _but some last remaining echoes of reason rang for alarm in his mind and he reluctantly broke the kiss.

"Who's drawing attention to us now?" He managed a smile, running his thumb along her scar; Ciri shot him a wild look that made his fragile resolve falter.

"Let's get out of here," she breathed.

* * *

They managed to get back to the inn without a scandal, but as soon as they made it up one flight of stairs, Ciri's lips were on his again, her hands anywhere she could reach, and Cahir abandoned any pretense of sanity.

He grabbed her at the waist and lifted her; she let out a surprised squeal, but immediately wrapped her arms and legs around him, her lips on his neck as he carried her the last few steps up to their rooms.

He kicked the doors closed behind them and released her, only to press her against the wall and kiss her furiously, his hands slipping under her shirt, thumbs teasing her nipples through the soft fabric of her bra.

Ciri moaned into his mouth, a needy sound that set his blood on fire, and he doubled his efforts to get her out of her clothes. She ripped his shirt open, her nails grazing his chest as he nibbled on her neck, relishing in the shudder that ran through her.

He pulled at her pants and she wriggled out of them; he ran his hands up the silky skin of her thighs, sliding one hand between her legs. She whined and spread her legs a little and he slipped his fingers into her, his thumb rubbing against her clit. Ciri let out a curse and rocked her hips into his touch, increasing the friction.

"_Cahir—_" she was panting, her hands frantically fumbling with his breeches. With his free hand he helped her pull them down and Ciri grabbed his throbbing cock and began stroking him; his back arched and a cry tore free of his lips and he had to press his forearm against the wall above her head to keep his balance. Taking advantage of his momentary distraction Ciri wrapped one leg around his waist and guided him into her; the sensation crashed over him and Cahir leaned into Ciri, biting her shoulder to stifle a moan.

He clutched onto her hips to steady himself as he pushed into her to the hilt. He paused for a moment, but Ciri rocked her body with an impatient whine and Cahir lost any resemblance of control. He grabbed her leg and slammed into her, again and again, the angle awkward, the movements frantic, but nothing mattered just then, only her moans, her nails digging into his back, the heat of her burning him alive—

"Gods! Cahir—" She shuddered as her orgasm hit her; the sensation drove him to the edge and in a few quick thrusts he came as well, his vision blurring, his head full of dull ringing. Ciri went limp against him and he pressed against her, his breathing coming in gasps, his legs shaking with effort to support them both.

In the last outburst of energy Cahir scooped Ciri up, crossed over to the bed in a few unsteady steps and lowered her onto the sheets before collapsing beside her, utterly spent. She turned and snuggled against him, burying her face in his neck.

"By the Sun," Cahir managed, his breathing ragged.

"Indeed." Ciri took a few deep breaths before continuing, her voice as hoarse as his. "Between that and you being so damn _decent_, you're going to be my undoing, I swear."

Cahir's heart leaped in his chest, but he didn't dare probe any further. He was set on taking whatever she was willing to give, and not expecting more—or at least this was what he was telling himself.

For now, he only tightened his embrace, weaving his hand into her hair as his eyes slid close.

He must have dozed off; he snapped awake as Ciri pressed a kiss to his chin. She propped herself up on the elbow to look at him, her hair tousled, a small smile dancing on her lips. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen no matter the circumstances—but deep down Cahir quietly began to favour this disheveled, satisfied look.

"Do you want to go talk to the kids tomorrow morning? I can go to Linden and try to figure out if anything happened there that should concern us."

Cahir smiled and touched her cheek. "Whatever my queen commands."

He let out a soft laugh as she smacked his shoulder; he grabbed her wrist and pulled her down for a kiss.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cahir's fingers curled around a crumpled piece of paper. He looked around once more, then cornered the building, and hidden in its shade, took the paper out and straightened it. The note looked scribbled in a hurry, simple and alarming.  
_Your friends are here. Hollow Lane, sunset._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta for the chapter by [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) . <3

* * *

Ciri disappeared early in the morning; a quick kiss the only warning Cahir got before the green light flashed and she was gone.

He was tempted to linger in bed some more, in between the dreaming and the indulgent memories. But the sense of duty gnawed at him and made it impossible to relax; not even an hour later he found himself retracing their steps from the day before.

The day was pleasantly warm. The early morning sun was lighting up the streets and dancing in the windows of the houses he passed as the town sprang to life around him.

The alchemist's shop looked like a burning torch, all the golden elements alight; it was also dead quiet, the shutters and doors firmly closed.

Cahir quelled the desire to find the man himself and shake him until some more answers fell out, and focused on inspecting the area. A little further down the street he spotted a narrow lane that looked promising. He glanced around, but there were only a few people going about their business and paying him little attention. He turned into the lane, barely wide enough for him to walk comfortably. It turned out to be very short; as he approached its other end, he heard shouts and screams.

He sped up and turned the corner onto a large backyard, only to face a gang of six children engaged in some elaborate fight, armed with sticks and pot lids.

"Die, you Nilfgaardian scum!" screamed a red-haired girl of maybe ten years of age, delivering what clearly was supposed to be a deadly blow to a tall, blond boy beside her.

"Enemy!" A small, lanky, blackhaired boy announced as he spotted Cahir. The kids froze, then all turned towards him.

"I come in peace," Cahir announced, raising his hands. The redhead, clearly a leader of their little group, grinned at him and lowered her weapon.

"Speak, not-enemy."

Cahir fought not to laugh; he crouched down to shorten the distance between him and the children even further as he studied the little gang. There were four boys and two girls; all had the skinny, scruffy looks of children left unsupervised for days on end.

"I'm hoping you may be able to help me," he said with a smile.

The redhead frowned. "How?"

"I was told you sometimes work for the alchemist? Go to the woods for him, collecting herbs and the like?"

The girl's face fell. "Aye, normally we would. But he only yelled at us t’day."

"Told us to go away," the black haired boy added, then with a gleam in his brown eyes, he corrected himself. "Well, told us to—"

"I got that," Cahir cut him off; the boy huffed, disappointed. "It's a good thing that he did. There is something dangerous in the forest; you should all avoid going there."

"So Anti did disappear?" A quiet, plump boy peeped out from behind the redhead. "I told mister Vance, but he only laughed—"

"I'm not sure yet," Cahir said. "You are Emil, right?”

The boy—Emil—nodded vigorously. Cahir smiled at him with as much reassurance as he could muster.

“My friend went to Linden to investigate this. But I promise you that even if he did disappear, we'll find him and bring him home."

Emil smiled a small, shy smile. "That'd be good…"

"Have any of you seen anything strange or scary in the woods?"

The kids looked from one to another; there seemed to be a silent discussion going on, one Cahir was not privy to. Eventually the redhead turned to him.

"Nothin' scary. Nice lady come and talk to us, sometimes."

"And give sweets!" The blackhaired boy beamed.

“Kyle, shut yer mouth!” The redhead spun around to face him. Kyle took a step back, but his hands curled into fists.

“You shut up, Mila! He’s askin’!” He yelled back.

Cahir frowned. “Did that lady say anything about what she was doing in the forest?”

The kids exchanged glances again, but this time these were full of silent questions and small head shakes.

“Is rude to ask, it is,” Kyle murmured. “An’ she’s a wee bit scary.”

Mila the redhead gave him another glare before turning back to Cahir with a shrug. “Aye, like all grownups.”

“What exactly did she say to you? Did she threaten you?”

“Nuh; she don’t say much.” Mila shook her head. “She help us, tell us where not to go. Ask about our da’s. Nice, like.”

This all meant very little to Cahir; he was trying to imagine what kind of information Ciri might have needed. “And where do you meet her?”

“Different places,” Mila said, then she looked at him, pleading. “Please, don’t tell her we told you. She say not to tell folk, not yet.”

“Not yet?” Cahir repeated, confused, but Mila only shrugged again.

“Dunno, is what she said.”

“And those places where she tells you not to go,” Cahir was grasping at straws at this point. “Did she ever tell you why?”

“Jus’ that it’s no good for us,” Kyle cut in. “You ain’t gonna hurt her? She’s nice.”

“If she didn’t do anything bad, no harm will come to her,” Cahir said, getting up. A nice lady in the forest was not what he had expected to hear about; he had no idea if she was in any way related to what Milva discovered, or if she was simply living in the woods.

“Thank you for all you told me. And please,” he made sure to make eye contact with every kid separately, “please avoid going into the forest for at least a few days.”

Their faces fell, but as he dug out his pouch and handed over a few coins, their smiles immediately returned. “Thank you for helping me.”

* * *

Cahir hadn’t expected Ciri to come back early, but when noon came and went, he began to grow worried. He tried taking a nap, but his mind was restless, coming up with elaborate scenarios as to reasons for Ciri’s absence.

He went down to the tavern and ate alone. Una must have sensed his mood as she left him in peace, busying herself behind the bar. Cahir even ordered a beer in an attempt to soothe his nerves, but that did not work either. He eventually gave up and decided to go wander around the town.

He didn’t have any destination in mind; hood pulled over his head, he mindlessly strolled down one lane or another, the worry for Ciri gnawing at his mind. She should have been back by now; she went only to check Emil’s story. What if she went off into the woods alone, following a lead? What if she came across whatever was lurking there? What if—

Someone bumped into him, violently jerking his focus back to the present. The street was busy, with people rushing in all directions. Cahir shook his head to clear his thoughts when he realised something was wrong.

The dagger his father gave him, the family heirloom; the one he now always carried on his belt—was gone.

"Hey!" Cahir spun around, but whomever walked into him was long gone, swallowed by the crowds. He frantically checked his pouch, but it was intact; everything else seemed in place, all the small items he carried in his pockets—

His fingers curled around a crumpled piece of paper. He looked around once more, then cornered the building, and hidden in its shade, took the paper out and straightened it. The note looked scribbled in a hurry, simple and alarming.

_Your friends are here. Hollow Lane, sunset._

Cahir’s mind was spinning. He had no idea who the message was from, but the sentiment was clear. He cast a quick look around, and even though nobody seemed to pay him any mind, he still took extra care walking back to the Lark, changing direction a couple of times, stopping for a few moments to make sure he wasn’t followed.

Once in the tavern, he went straight to their rooms—and he almost bumped into Ciri, pacing around like a caged animal.

Without a word, he pulled her into a desperate embrace, an unspeakable relief flooding his senses.

“Thank the Sun,” he whispered into her hair.

Ciri lifted her head to catch his gaze, her eyes narrowing.

“Hey, I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself,” she said, a hint of steel in her voice. “I've been doing it for well over a decade; way before you—actually, from around the time you showed up."

She nudged him with a grin to soften the blow, and Cahir quelled the spike of dark, bitter guilt and even managed a glare. "That was low. I was simply worried."

Instead of a response, she pulled him into a kiss, her lips chasing away the lingering shadows of their past. After they parted, he pressed his forehead against hers, breathing in her scent. Ciri's fingers gently carded through his hair in the soft silence and Cahir was trying to commit to memory this moment of peace before the world with its threats and demands would catch up with them.

"Did you find out anything?" He asked quietly once he could no longer ignore the pressing sense of duty.

Ciri wriggled out of his embrace and slumped onto his bed.

“I found Anti’s mother. The boy has been missing for close to a week now.”

Cahir swore under his breath. Ciri rubbed her face with a grimace.

“He was often going to the woods by himself, but this time, he didn’t come back.”

"I hope Milva gets here soon." Cahir sat down beside her. "Every day we spend here, the chances of finding him—"

"I know," Ciri cut him off with a grimace. "Did the kids say anything? Any monsters or scary places?"

"They sometimes meet a nice lady in the woods who keeps telling them where not to go as it's dangerous. Not sure if it's relevant."

"That could be anything," Ciri agreed with a sigh. "This whole thing stinks."

"Speaking of stinking, we have another problem." Cahir fished out the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket.

Ciri took the not from him, read it and cursed quietly. She pressed the bridge of her nose; then she looked at him with a hint of grim humour.

"What did you lose?"

"My father's dagger." Cahir grimaced. "How do you—"

"Pat is a master pickpocketer, among other things," Ciri said. "That’s his handwriting. I had no idea he was in Zavada; last I saw him was a couple of weeks ago in Maribor. He tends to travel all over, changing his appearance whenever he pisses off someone important. You should get your dagger back when we meet him tonight."

Cahir frowned. "Is it safe for you? Shouldn't I go alone?"

"Because according to the note, you're so much safer out on the streets, with your Nilfgaardian friends roaming around?" Ciri raised her eyebrows. "Pat will make sure the place is secure. He's been watching my back for years."

She sat silent for a while, then she rubbed her forehead with a heavy sigh. "Why do the good things never last."

Cahir didn't respond, a quiet ache settling deep in his heart. Ciri glanced up at him with a smile, tilting her head.

"But that makes those good things more precious and worth celebrating." She reached out with her hand, running her fingers down his cheek; he took it and pressed his lips to her knuckles in a brief caress. "There is an hour or so left till sunset. Looks to me like we have some time to kill…"

Her fingers slid down to his chest, and Cahir couldn't help a weak laugh. The future heartbreak didn’t seem all that important when Ciri’s hand curled into his shirt as she pulled him into a kiss.

"You are impossible, you know,” he breathed as they parted.

"Old news," Ciri murmured in a low tone that was doing strange and wondrous things to his body. "Don't you want to cherish these last moments of peace?"

"And that's your idea of cherishing peace?" Cahir reached out to untie her hair, his fingers carding though the silver waves.

"Do you have a better one?" In one swift move Ciri straddled his lap; she lifted his head, teasing him, her lips a breath away.

"Let me think," Cahir murmured, his hands slipping under her shirt. "A nice dinner in the candlelight. We could discuss the current world affairs—"

"Too bright for candlelight," Ciri purred with impeccable logic, arching into his touch. Her hands wove into his hair in a way that drove him crazy every time. "Save that for later."

* * *

"We are so alone and vulnerable," Ciri called out towards the rooftops in a hushed tone that somehow managed to be heavy with mockery. Cahir could have sworn that the short, narrow street they were on was deserted save for them two, but the next moment there was a movement to his left, and a slim figure appeared out of nowhere beside them.

"Hi there, bandit," the stranger slid out from the shadow and revealed half-elf features and a wide grin.

The man was wearing a few different shades of unassuming greys and browns that allowed him to blend in with his surroundings; the only sign of extravagance were his eyes, accentuated with purple kohl, and his dark hair braided in a complicated pattern. Cahir couldn't even begin to guess his age.

"Good to see you too, thief.” Laughing, Ciri stepped into the man's outstretched arms.

The half-elf gave her a quick, strong hug; then he looked at Cahir over Ciri's shoulder. "You trust him?"

"With my life," Ciri said and Cahir's heart attempted to jump out of his chest. The half-elf just nodded, stepped back and beckoned them to follow.

He led them down the maze of side lanes and into a derelict looking house. Cahir had just enough time to ponder the safety of the crooked roof above their heads when the man lit a few candles revealing a tidy, albeit mostly empty room, with just a bed, and a chest along one of the walls.

"Nice hideout," Ciri said, looking around.

"Thanks, pet." The man grinned. "I need to keep a low profile for a little while. So." He turned and pointed an accusative finger at Cahir. "You ask me to keep an eye out for Nilfgaardians for you, and I find you in this godforsaken town, snogging one in a back alley?"

Cahir took a sharp inhale. It hadn't occurred to him they could have been followed; he couldn't decide if he was more worried, or outraged—or embarrassed.

True to form, Ciri had a response ready,

"Now, now, don't be jealous. I'm not sharing." She sent Cahir a grin over her shoulder, then turned back to the half-elf. "It's a long story. You're already in trouble, so I'll spare you the details. This is Cahir, who also needs to avoid our Nilfgaardian friends. Cahir, meet Palla'en Arwyn Thiorain, known to his friends and victims as Pat."

"Victims!" Pat repeated with an air of hurt innocence. "Truly, my lady is exaggerating."

"Su-ure." Ciri nodded. "Go on, be a good citizen and give Cahir his dagger back."

"What if I already sold it?" Pat pouted.

"You haven't." Ciri shot back. "You like pretty things too much."

"Must be why I still have patience for you." Pat laughed, then hissed as Ciri's fist hit his shoulder. "Fine," he sighed painfully. He produced the dagger from some hidden pocket in his robe, flipped it and with a mocking bow he offered it to Cahir, handle first. "It's rare."

"I know," Cahir snapped, taking the dagger and securing it to his belt.

The half-elf grinned at him. "I'm talking about this lassie's trust."

"Pat." Ciri lost her patience. "Is this urgent or did you just miss my company?"

"Why can't it be both?" Under Ciri's glare the half-elf surrendered. He nodded at Cahir. "His comrades are back, asking about you."

Ciri muttered a convoluted curse. "They're in Zavada?"

"Arrived this afternoon," Pat said, his tone finally turning serious. "Only two this time; you told me there were three before? No idea where the third one is then. You both need to keep a low profile from now on. I spotted you a handful of times already over the last few days."

"Yeah, but you're special." Ciri nudged him.

"They're imperial intelligence; trust me, they're equally special," Pat pointed out somberly. “They also seem to be rubbing shoulders with the Church of Eternal Fire. I saw them hanging out with a few Witch Hunters.” He fixed Ciri with a stare. “These guys mean business. Do be careful; I would hate if something were to happen to my favourite brat."

Ciri rubbed her forehead. "We can't leave just yet; we're waiting for someone."

"Then at least stay out of sight," Pat said with a note of exasperation. "You weren't exactly discreet, going about your affairs in this town."

Cahir grimaced; Ciri shrugged.

"We thought we were. Guess we'll have to do better." She studied the half-elf, her head tilted. "And what are you planning to do next?"

"Lay low for a bit, too." Pat gestured to the empty room with a grin. "Some redecorating, maybe. Then, who knows. Oxenfurt perhaps?"

"What about that Van Houden scandal?"

The half-elf waved his hand dismissively. "_Please_, that was ages ago. Seventeen different scandals have happened since. Nobody cares anymore. I'll be just fine." He grinned at her. “And speaking of other scandals, will I pass your regards to Lady Megan?”

Seeing the glare Ciri sent him, Cahir’s curiosity spiked.

“You know too much," she murmured.

“Which is why you came to me in the first place,” Pat pointed out happily, then turned serious again. “Be careful.” He nodded at Cahir. “Both of you.”

Ciri threw her arms around Pat’s neck; the man hugged her tightly. "Thank you," she murmured. “Mind yourself, thief.”

* * *

They walked back to the Lark in silence. Cahir's attention was focused entirely on their surroundings; he made sure to check each lane and every corner to ensure they weren’t being watched. He only relaxed once the sturdy doors to the inn shut behind them. Ciri slid her hood off and turned to him.

"I hate the feeling of being a prey," she muttered. "Let's warn everyone."

"Go upstairs, I'll grab Ruben," Cahir said quietly. "If any of the spies are here, the two of us together will definitely attract attention."

Ciri looked like she was about to protest, but he only fixed her with a stare; she huffed a resigned laugh and obliged without further comments.

Cahir went into the inn proper and was immediately relieved that Ciri wasn't with him. The tavern was busier than usual; the room was dark enough to provide the patrons some privacy, but not enough for them to disguise their identity. Una was serving drinks; Cahir waited till she walked back to the bar with an empty tray before approaching her.

"Need to talk to the innkeeper," he said, not bothering to lower his voice. "Can you send for him?"

Una shot him a surprised look, but nodded. "Aye, he should be free in a few minutes."

"I'll wait outside."

The innkeeper found him a moment later.

"Una said you were looking for me?"

"Not here," Cahir murmured, nodding towards the rooms. They climbed the stairs together; the innkeeper kept casting quick glances at him but Cahir kept silent, hoping the man would get the hint.

Cahir led him into the room and closed the door behind them. Ciri got up from where she was sitting on the bed, her expression somber.

"A friend just warned me that some unpleasant people who have been following me arrived in Zavada,” she began without preamble. “Over the next few days someone may be asking about us. We'll be gone as soon as Milva gets here, and we'll try not to be seen by then, but please warn your staff; I'd hate to bring trouble under your roof and put you all at risk."

Cahir studied Ruben, but the innkeeper only smiled.

"Worry not,” he said. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you need. They'll find no information here.”

Ciri shook her head with a grimace. “I’m talking about Nilfgaardian spies,” she insisted. “They have ways to make people talk. Tell everyone to be careful, please.”

“_Ciri._” Ruben placed a hand on her shoulder; a strange note that slipped into his tone caught Cahir's attention. “Wasn’t gonna say anything; your secrets are yours alone. But—my family hails from Cintra. The Nilfgaardians will find nothing here.”

For a heartbeat, Ciri was simply looking at Ruben in silence, dumbstruck. Then she let out a strained sob and threw her arms around the innkeeper’s neck. Cahir couldn't help a relieved smile as Ruben gathered her up in a hug she nearly disappeared in.

"Does anyone else know?" Ciri asked, her voice shaking, as she disentangled from the embrace.

"Know what?" The innkeeper winked at her, and she slapped his shoulder, laughing softly.

“Thank you. For everything."

"At your service." Ruben attempted a formal bow, which only earned him Ciri's glare.

"You're pushing your luck now," she mock-warned him.

"Can't wait to tell my sister about you.” The innkeeper chuckled, shaking his head. “She’ll never believe me. I need to go back now—will I get you some food up here?"

"That'd be great," Cahir said. “Thank you.”

"I'll ask Una to bring some later so," Ruben gave them one more smile and left.

Once they were alone, Ciri turned to Cahir with a sunny smile that illuminated his very soul. He reached out his hand; she took it and he wrapped his arms around her and wished with all his heart that time stood still; that he could simply hold her and keep her safe for eternity.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can’t I just come and visit my favourite people?” Ciri pouted with mock offence.  
Geralt only raised his eyebrows, and Ciri chuckled.  
“Fine,” she sighed, waving her hand. “We might need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta for the chapter by [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) . <3

* * *

As Cahir woke up the next morning, the sight of Ciri asleep beside him almost made him thankful to the imperial spies for confining them to their rooms. She was curled up on her side, her back to him, her hair spilled over the pillows. He touched the silver strands with a feeling akin to reverence. He still couldn’t quite believe he was given so much—but like any addict, he couldn't help craving more.

Cahir wrapped his arm around Ciri’s waist, trying not to wake her up, and buried his face in her hair. She shifted a little in her sleep and moved closer, like a cat drawn to a source of warmth, but her breathing remained slow and regular. Cahir closed his eyes and committed this moment to memory: the feel of her skin under his fingers, the subtle scent of rose oil and _her_; the way they fit together.

Cahir was aware he was on borrowed time. He had no idea what Ciri’s plans were for after their little investigation was over; she’d mentioned disappearing, but said nothing else and Cahir hadn't dared to ask. He hoped against hope that her disappearance would be temporary; he knew with absolute certainty that he would wait as long as necessary if there was ever a chance to see her again.

She was more than his dreams could have ever conveyed. She kept surprising him, revealing yet more facets of herself—like a gemstone only revealing the full beauty of its intricate cut when illuminated by the light. He would have given anything to be able to bring her home to his parents, for them to _understand—_

Ciri stirred, pulling Cahir’s thoughts back to the present. Her hand found his and intertwined their fingers.

"Good morning," Cahir whispered, nuzzling the soft skin of her neck.

"Morning," she murmured and turned to him, only to snuggle closer. "How late is it?"

"Quite." Cahir kissed the top of her head. "I think someone left us breakfast a while ago, but I didn't bother getting up to check."

Ciri chuckled. "I hope it wasn't meant to be eaten hot."

“We’ll survive.”

“That we will,” she agreed, burying her face in the crook of his neck, and added in a muffled tone, “I may need to rethink my stance on slow mornings.”

Cahir smiled and stroked her hair. “I used to think they were a waste of time too, but Toussaint changed my mind.”

Ciri raised her head to look at him. “How so?”

“Back in the hansa days, we spent a few months there," Cahir said, his smile turning wistful as the memories resurfaced. "Regis, being himself, befriended half of the palace, including the cook. The breakfast became nearly a celebration: we would always meet in the kitchens and sit there for hours on end, talking, laughing, taking jabs at Geralt or Dandelion.” He broke off, and smiled. “Despite the circumstances, those were good times.”

“Much like now,” Ciri pointed out softly.

Speechless, Cahir pulled her in for a kiss.

“Much like now,” he whispered when they parted.

Ciri smiled, her fingers lazily trailing along his chest.

“As you can imagine, Toussaint still holds the title of the world's capital of indulgence, what with the wine and the pace of life,” she said. “But somehow, despite the odds, Geralt managed to make a home for himself there." She chuckled. “He continues to drag all the misfits under his roof, too. A former wight is his cook now. Geralt lifted her curse and invited her to stay.”

Cahir shook his head with a soft laugh. "Is there any type of a monster that man hasn't befriended yet?"

"He hates drowners, and ghouls make for a lousy company, but that's about it." Ciri raised her head with a wide smirk. "I know! I must suggest he tames a wyvern. A childhood dream come true…"

Cahir shook his head. "Naturally you wanted a dragon when you were a child."

"What, you didn't?"

"I wanted a sword. A real, big one."

"How very reasonable of you." Ciri laughed. "Also, not a dragon, a _wyvern_. I had a plush one, called Lily. Loved that toy to bits."

Cahir pressed a kiss to her forehead, the image her tale conjured up too adorable for words.

"Always very precise about what you want, aren't you, my queen," he murmured, running his fingers down her back.

She cast him a smile that was suspiciously innocent, but before he realised what she was planning, she dug her fingers into his flesh and tickled him mercilessly until he managed to wriggle out of her reach. She leaned over him with a grin.

"That's for calling me _queen_."

Her hands moved to reinforce the message, but this time Cahir was prepared.

Ciri laughed as he flipped her onto her back and pinned her to the bed by her wrists. Her eyes darkened, and a sensuous smile spread on her lips.

It was a silent challenge, if he had dared to step up to it. Cahir's breath caught in his throat, blood pounding in his ears. He had never imagined such a scenario; Ciri seemed to him like a force of nature, like the fire itself—and it was impossible to control the element. But now her daring gaze was on him, her chest heaving; she bit her lip and the sight turned his blood to fire.

He was already hard, every nerve in his body burning with desire. But as much as he struggled to remain in control, Cahir knew he had to proceed slow: he needed to be absolutely sure he wasn't misreading Ciri's intentions.

He put her hands above her head in a loose grip; with his free hand he held her chin.

"Precise about what you want, are you now?" He murmured as he tilted her head up and leaned to catch her bottom lip with his teeth. "If that's how you wanted this to play out, next time just say so."

She let out a shuddering sigh. "But where's the fun in that?" She breathed, trying to claim his lips but Cahir only strengthened the hold on her wrists.

His hand travelled down her neck, onto her chest and belly; he was watching for her reaction, but the last threads of his hesitation all but disappeared as she arched up, twisting in his grip, unsuccessful in her attempts to nudge his touch where she wanted it, her breathing more and more ragged.

"Communication is key," he lowered his voice and leaned in to nibble on her neck; she let out a gasp as his tongue danced on her skin. "Besides, some might argue that words can be quite...stimulating."

"And—_ah_!" Ciri jerked her hips as Cahir slid his hand between her thighs, getting teasingly close, but never quite touching her. "And do you—_gods—_agree?"

He could feel how wet she was and the perceptible proof of her desire was driving him mad. It was a struggle to maintain his focus, to draw out the chase, to delay the pleasure.

"Let us test that, shall we?" He withdrew his hand to the sound of her whining protests, but as he grabbed her breast and rolled her nipple between his fingers, the protests turned into an inarticulate gasp. He leaned in, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "I wish to devour you. I want to hear you scream my name again—"

"Please," Ciri panted, squirming in his grasp. "Cahir, I can't... Please…"

He moved his hand slowly back down her side, trailing the shapes of all her spellbinding curves. She was cursing and pleading breathlessly, and when he finally slid his fingers inside her, he had to kiss her to stifle her scream. He wasn't faring much better; his cock was so hard it almost hurt. Seeing her so undone—a palpable proof of her trust—it was nearly too much for him to bear.

Ciri broke the kiss and arched up as he curled his fingers inside her.

"Fuck me." She caught his gaze, her eyes wild, demanding. "Cahir, please. Now."

He could never refuse her; now, least of all times.

"Turn around," he growled with last shaky semblance of control, loosening his grip on her.

Ciri flipped over onto her stomach. He grabbed her waist and shoved her hips up and he let himself go; holding back was no longer possible. In one swift move, he pushed deep into her, all the way to the hilt. She arched up with a low keen and he stilled, sheathed inside her, biting his lips to stifle a groan.

Ciri rocked into him in a wordless plea and Cahir obeyed her wishes; he began thrusting into her in deep, frantic strokes, her cries and curses urging him on. His world narrowed down to her and her alone; her body beneath his, her sobs of mounting pleasure, the muscles on her back contracting as she pushed back against him, getting him in as deep as possible, chasing her release.

Between the tempo Ciri demanded and how wound up he was, Cahir was painfully aware he wouldn't last long; he pulled her up and held her pressed to his chest, still buried deep in her. He slid one leg to the floor for support, his thrusts now shallower at this awkward angle. His other hand slid to tease her clit and Ciri shuddered and fell apart, trembling against him as her orgasm rippled through her body, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a soundless scream.

But Cahir wasn't far behind: it took only a few thrusts before his own world shattered around him, sending him into oblivion. There was only Ciri's presence like an anchor to guide him back: his harbour, his storm; his penance and reward.

* * *

"Cahir." Ciri's voice was low but serious, and that snapped him back to reality.

He opened his eyes to see her leaning over him with a strange expression. A quiet dread crept into his veins as he reached out to cup her face.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

She attempted a frown but the corners of her mouth quirked up, and a smile spilled on her face and lit up her eyes. "What's wrong is that you've gone and completely and thoroughly spoilt me."

Cahir laughed with palpable relief and pulled her down for a kiss. "Don't scare me like that," he murmured against her lips. "I feared I went too far—"

"You didn't." She touched his face. "It was exactly what I needed."

"Anything for my queen." He said it in a light tone, but by now she must have known it was no exaggeration: there was not a thing he wouldn't have done for her.

Ciri rolled her eyes. "You're at it again? Want to repeat the experience?"

There was a playful challenge in her voice, and Cahir admitted defeat, but not before kissing her again.

"Fine, you insatiable _witcher_."

Ciri chuckled. "That's much better."

"But ‘my witcher’ doesn't have the same ring to it," Cahir dared to say, then held his breath awaiting her reaction.

"I trust you to come up with an appropriate alternative," Ciri retorted as she settled beside him, propped up on her elbow.

Cahir tried to quell a dizzy joy at the lack of rejection, and even an apparent encouragement of his endearment term. Ciri was studying him for a moment, a small smile on her lips.

"I can think of worse outcomes of being confined to one room," she decided, gesturing to him still sprawled across the bed and unwilling to move, and all the mess they had made. "And since we're about to lose the comfort and privacy of proper beds soon, it is purely practical to use them in their full capacity while we still can."

"Practical." Cahir couldn't help a snort. "Can you turn every situation into a reason for an inappropriate joke?"

"Most of them," Ciri agreed with a grin. "Geralt and Yennefer have their silly proverbs game; I went a step further."

"A few steps, I believe," Cahir murmured, which earned him a slap on the shoulder.

"That was low and unnecessary," Ciri announced with a pout.

"As low as your joke?" Cahir suggested with a smile, then grabbed her hand that was sneaking towards his waist again. "Don't even _think_ about it."

Ciri let out a chuckle, but her expression turned pensive as she rested her hand on his chest, over his heart. "Thank you for those past few days" she said softly.

Cahir's breath caught in his throat. He reached out to run his thumb gently down her scar, his heart contracting painfully.

"Always, Ciri."

She took his hand and pressed her lips to the inside of his palm. "The strangest part is, I know you mean it," she murmured.

Cahir didn't trust his voice enough to reply. As Ciri leaned in and kissed him, he weaved his hands in her hair and let the kiss be his response.

* * *

"Milva should get here today or tomorrow," Ciri said, sitting on his bed with her legs crossed, the map she took from Nenneke's library spread out in front of her. "Let's recap what we know. Tell me exactly what the kids told you."

They had managed to get out of bed, devour whatever food Ruben or Una left for them, and even wash and dress. Cahir thought that an impressive achievement, considering how utterly indulgent their morning had been.

"Nothing weird or scary, they said." He lay on his side, his head propped up on an elbow, studying the map to memorise the orientation points. "They met someone in the forest, a few times, in random places. A nice lady, they said, warning them about dangerous places. She apparently told them not to tell anyone about her, and gave them treats.”

Ciri jerked her head up and glared at him.

“Say that again?”

Cahir looked at her, surprised by the change in her tone.

“A nice lady. Warning them not to go to certain places, giving them sweets, and asking about their families.”

“Fuck,” Ciri growled; her elbows resting on her knees, she hid her face in her hands. “_Damn_.”

Cahir frowned and touched her arm. “Care to fill me in?”

“I may be wrong, but…" She turned to him, her eyes blazing, her lips a thin line. "When I was escaping the Wild Hunt, I stumbled upon a place in Velen. The locals referred to is as the Crookback Bog. Three ancient creatures lived there; Ladies of the Wood, they called themselves. Crones, we called them. They had what they referred to as a trail of treats, to lure the kids in. I’ve no idea what they needed the kids for. They locked me in and were planning to hand me over to the Aen Elle, save a foot they planned to eat. I managed to escape. Months later, I killed two of them; I assumed the third would return to their lair.”

The premonition Cahir had during the wedding celebrations came back to him in a flash, but he quelled the spike of panic and did his best to stick to reason. “And you’re thinking this person is the third crone? There isn’t much evidence for this; it may still turn out to be just some random hermit living away from civilisation.”

Ciri shrugged. “I hope that’s the case. But honestly, all the clues so far point to something rotten."

She jumped off the bed and extended her hand to him. "Come."

Cahir obeyed. He got up and took her hand.

"Where are we going?" He asked, closing his eyes in anticipation of the suffocating void.

"To get a second opinion, and possibly help," Ciri said.

The realisation hit him and his eyes flew open. "Ciri—"

* * *

"—wait," Cahir finished helplessly, once his nausea abated.

But it was too late: green, rolling hills basking in the summer sun surrounded them as far as the eye could see; a lark was singing overhead, and behind them stood a charming house—

"Ciri!"

Yennefer climbed the steps of what looked like a cellar, shielding her eyes. Ciri let go of his hand and rushed to embrace her. The sorceress hugged her, then held her at arms' length.

"You look happier every time I see you," she said with a smile.

Ciri grinned at her in response. "So do you." She looked around. "Where is Geralt?"

"He rode to Beauclair to deliver a piece of disgusting carcass to some noble,” Yennefer said with an air of annoyance. “Even after all this time, there are still those who refuse to believe Geralt’s word alone that the contract is done. He should be back soon." She turned to him, her eyebrows raised, and Ciri glanced back at him with a smile.

"I assume you remember Cahir."

"It's hard to forget anything that happened in that wretched place," Yennefer said as Cahir joined her and Ciri.

The sorceress extended her hand; Cahir took it and bowed, pressing a fleeting kiss to her palm. “Lady Yennefer.”

The sorceress shot him an appreciative smile. “You almost make me miss the old times,” she said, then turned to Ciri. “Go and say hi to Marlene. She’ll be delighted to see you.”

Ciri shot them a grin and ran into the house. Yennefer watched after her with a soft expression, then gestured for him to follow her and led him around the side of the building and towards a shaded pavillon by the herb garden. Foxgloves and hollyhocks grew along its sides in clusters of pink and purple, and a wisteria plant climbed up its pillars, the flowers adorning the front like scented garlands. Inside was a low table and a few settees arranged in a semi-circle; a picture-perfect spot for relaxation during long summer afternoons.

“To be quite frank, I’m surprised to see you in our part of the world again,” Yennefer settled in what seemed to be her spot, a black-and-white shawl hanging on the backrest, and a pile of books on a small side table to her left.

Cahir took a seat opposite her. “You went to hell for her, my lady, heedless of the danger,” he said. “Why are you surprised I am willing to take a risk for her?”

“She is not in mortal peril,” the sorceress pointed out.

Cahir shrugged. “She is back.”

Yennefer studied him for a moment in silence, then smiled, a seemingly genuine, warm smile.

“I guess I underestimated your motives. I cannot help but wonder if you know what you’re getting into, though.”

“I have some idea,” Cahir retorted.

“Idea about what?” Ciri asked as she walked in, carrying a tray with a plate of pastries, a jug of juice and a few glasses that she put down onto the table. “Are you plotting behind my back?”

“Never,” Yennefer said, reaching out and snatching one of the pastries, a golden roll sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. “Come sit, and tell me everything.”

Ciri sat down beside him and grabbed one of the rolls herself. “Quite a lot has happened in the past few weeks,” she said, tearing away a piece of the golden bun and stuffing it in her mouth.

“Clearly.” The sorceress smirked.

Ciri glanced at Cahir with a grin, but he did his best not to react.

“Not what I meant.” As she turned back to Yennefer, her expression grew serious. “Emhyr is after me again.”

Yennefer leaned forward with a frown. Cahir saw her eyes darting to him almost too quickly to notice; a brief but telling reaction.

Ciri saw it too.

“Cahir had nothing to do with it,” she said with emphasis and his heart skipped a beat at the idea of her defending him to the person she considered her closest family. “You know as well as I do that Geralt can’t lie to save his life; I bet Emhyr was being kept up to date on the subject of my witcher adventures. He must have come up with a brand new plan that he needs a puppet heir for.”

“What are you going to do?” Yennefer was studying her with visible concern.

Ciri shot him another glance, then looked back at the sorceress and shrugged. “I will probably have to disappear for a while, ‘till whatever this is about blows over. But there is something more urgent I need to do first, and I need Geralt for that.”

Yennefer’s gaze focused on some distant point, then she smiled. “He will be here in a moment.”

Cahir’s discomfort was back in an instant. He may have already spilled his soul to the witcher, all those years back, consumed by the fever and the sense of hopelessness. But admitting his feelings for Ciri was one thing; acting on those feelings could have been a different matter altogether—and it wasn’t as if Ciri was going out of her way to keep whatever it was between them quiet. Besides, Yennefer had figured them out already, so the cat was out of the bag. All Cahir could do was brace for impact.

True to Yennefer’s words, the witcher rode into the estate grounds a few minutes later. The moment he dismounted Ciri was out of her seat, a blur of silver and white meeting in the middle of the yard, her arms around Geralt’s neck, him gathering her up into his embrace, briefly lifting her off the ground.

“Ciri,” was all Geralt said in his gruff tone; all he needed to say.

Their mutual affection was palpable, and Cahir felt a lump in his throat. Judging by Yennefer’s expression, he was not alone in his reaction.

Ciri dragged Geralt by the hand towards the pavillon, beaming.

“I brought someone,” she chirped as Cahir got up to greet him.

Physically, the witcher looked very much like Cahir remembered; his silver hair in a ponytail, his golden eyes alert, his raised eyebrows the only reaction to Cahir’s presence. But there was something almost mellow about him now, all the sharp edges softened by the years of peace.

The next thing Cahir knew, he was dragged into a quick, strong hug that took him completely by surprise. Then the witcher circled the table, shook off his swords and sank into the settee beside Yennefer.

“What are you doing here? Both of you,” he clarified, looking at Cahir.

“Can’t I just come and visit my favourite people?” Ciri pouted with mock offence as they both sat back down.

Geralt only raised his eyebrows again, and Ciri chuckled.

“Fine,” she sighed, waving her hand. “We might need your help.”

Geralt was reaching for the jug with juice; he tensed visibly, looking between her and Cahir. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing yet, or at least nothing directly affecting us,” Ciri reassured him, then smiled. “I was on my way to visit Nenneke when I found this stray Nilfgaardian here.” She cast Cahir a grin, and he only shook his head in exasperation. “While at the temple, we learnt that Milva lives nearby. Nenneke figured out you’re friends and seems to have adopted her.”

Geralt’s smiles were rare, and all the more meaningful for it. “Milva? How is she?”

“Good, from what I could gather,” Ciri said, then half-turned to Cahir. “Cahir was drinking with her, so he might know more—”

“Only _once,_” Cahir cut in, sending Ciri a glare. She beamed at him; Geralt smirked. Cahir decided to ignore them both, and continued. “She’s well. She settled in the Ellander forests some five years ago. She hunts for the temple and the local inns along the Merchant's Trail.”

“She says there was something happening in the woods.” Ciri chimed in. “So far we know of one child missing; a bunch of kids in the nearby town talked about meeting a beautiful lady in random places in the forest. Someone who warns them about danger, asks about their families, and gives them treats.”

Geralt studied her for a moment, his eyes narrowed. “And you’re thinking—”

“—that it’s the Weavess,” Ciri finished.

“The Weavess?” Yennefer repeated.

“The third crone I didn’t manage to slay at the Bald Mountain.” Ciri grimaced. “A disturbing number of details match, but I may just be paranoid. You said they were bound to the Crookback Bog, didn’t you?” She directed the question at Geralt.

The witcher rubbed his forehead. “They are born of the land and bound to it,” he said. “That’s what the Tree Spirit told me. I took it to mean Velen, but… Eithné makes a claim to the entire area where the Brokilon forest used to grow, hundreds of years ago. For all we know, Crones also might’ve been bound to much more vast area than we assumed. They are ancient; human borders mean nothing to them.”

Ciri nodded, and Cahir’s dread solidified with each word Gerald spoke. He took a breath to keep his fear for Ciri at bay and made a silent vow to protect her at all costs.

“On the one hand, I hope I’m wrong,” Ciri was saying beside him. She smiled a feral smile. “But on the other, I wouldn’t mind finishing the job.”

Geralt frowned at her. “If it is her, she’s alone,” he said quietly. “She’s exposed. She is likely to call on all sorts of monsters for protection.”

“I thought as much,” Ciri said with a grimace. “Which is why we’re here."

Geralt nodded slowly. “Four of us?”

Yennefer scowled at them. “Surely that's not enough?”

Geralt shrugged. “The crone isn’t expecting us; Ciri dealt with two of them on her own, and once we kill her, her control over whatever beasts she sends our way will wane. With a bit of luck, it shouldn’t turn out too bad.”

The sorceress was about to protest, but Geralt turned to her with a smile. “You can test that invention of yours, to monitor us two from afar.”

Yennefer narrowed her eyes at him. “Witcher—”

“You wanted to test its range,” Geralt pointed out.

“What invention?” Ciri asked.

“I’m trying to spare myself frequent heart attacks as Geralt jumps head first into stupidly dangerous contracts,” Yennefer said, glaring at the witcher who sat back with a smug expression. “I came up with a little amulet-style device that is magically linked to my crystal. It doesn’t give me much detail, but it gives me Geralt’s vitals. I’ll need a sample of your blood and I can make one for you, too.”

Ciri frowned. “And what exactly would this amulet tell you?”

Yennefer turned to look at her, glanced at Cahir, then smirked. “It would read your heartbeat; for Geralt, I’m working on modifying it to read the toxicity in his bloodstream, too. But it only works when in contact with your skin, so just take it off before doing anything you don’t want me to worry about.”

Never in his life did Cahir want to disappear more than in that moment. He could feel his face and ears burning; he was painfully aware of Geralt’s gaze flickering to him before the witcher turned his attention back to Ciri. As was her wont, she only laughed, completely unbothered.

“Deal.”

“Excellent, that's one problem less.” Yennefer said. "Now, back to the previous one: how outnumbered are you likely to be?"

Ciri and Geralt exchanged glances. The sorceress nodded as if she had gotten her answer, then focused on Geralt.

"Don't you have a higher vampire who owes you a debt?"

Geralt frowned at her. "Regis does not kill, you know that."

"I'm not talking about Regis."

Geralt shook his head in exasperation. "I'm not asking Dettlaff to kill _drowners_ for me."

"No, it's better to let fifty drowners kill you." Yennefer's tone gained an edge.

"There's not going to be fifty drowners—" Ciri mumbled, but Cahir didn't hear much conviction in her voice.

"Of course not," Yennefer cut her off. "There will be a hundred of them. If that is indeed the Weavess, she's alone and stripped of two thirds of her powers. Do you know what I would do, were I her? I'd send all the monsters I could possibly summon onto you to wear you down. And once you were exhausted and wounded, then I would toy with you myself. Is there any reason for you to think she may be less cunning, or vindictive?" She fixed Ciri with a stare. "Didn't you tell me the Crones were after your blood?"

Ciri didn't manage to suppress a shudder. Cahir grabbed her hand and squeezed it, his worries about Geralt's opinion suddenly silly and insignificant. He was trying hard to find a flaw in the sorceress' logic, but failed; in the light of Yennefer's words his premonition became a clear and stark warning.

"That may still be the case," he said quietly.

"What?" Ciri spun around to look at him. Yennefer studied him, her eyes narrowed.

"I had something like a vision, the night of the wedding in the Lark," Cahir said to Ciri; then he turned to Geralt. "It wasn't a dream, but it did feel similar to those we used to have."

Geralt only nodded, his face expressionless, those inhuman eyes drilling into Cahir's.

"All of a sudden I got this overwhelming feeling that whatever we came to investigate was somehow linked to Ciri. That it was evil, and personal."

Ciri was looking at him, her brows knitted into a frown. "You never mentioned that before."

"I assumed I was being paranoid," Cahir said with a grimace. "Wouldn't be the first time—and until earlier today, I had no reason to believe there was any truth in it."

"That settles it," Yennefer said, her tone turning to steel. "Go find Regis."

"I don't even know how to find him," Geralt grumbled. "I've no idea where they disappeared off to after Syanna's mess."

"I might be able to help," Ciri said slowly. "I haven't seen him since those days after Stygga, but I might be able to sense him still."

Yennefer nodded. "If that is the last Crone, you will need all the leverage you can get. I’ll start working on that amulet for Ciri."

Ciri got up from the settee. "Let's get going then. I've no idea how long this might take."

The sorceress smiled at her. "Before you go, I trust Marlene made it clear you two are to dine with us tonight?"

Ciri chuckled, her mood lightening up a little. She winked at Cahir. “She did. We will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A Wyvern Called Lily](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14482206)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You got what you wanted?" Geralt asked, his tone flat, his face not betraying any emotion.  
His choice of words and their implication immediately put Cahir on edge. "What I want—what I’ve always wanted—is to see Ciri safe and happy," he retorted, trying to keep his irritation at bay. "What I want is to hear her carefree laugh. And I was lucky to get glimpses of it, yes, if that's what you're asking."
> 
> _(Or Geralt in Dad Mode strikes again.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! Only two chapters for my brain to conjure up, as the two final ones are almost complete. Here's to smoother sailing among the word reefs in the year 2020.
> 
> Beta by [meru birb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir). <3

* * *

"This is pointless, I'm afraid," Ciri said as she slumped onto the ground and leaned against a tree with a sigh. "Whatever I remember of Regis must be wildly inaccurate as it gives me no echo, no resonance; nothing."

"We may be fine without the vampires' help," Geralt said.

They stood in the little orchard at the verge of Corvo Bianco grounds, shielded from the afternoon sun by a few apple trees, their branches heaving with fruit.

"What Lady Yennefer said made a lot of sense," Cahir countered quietly. "If there is a chance of improving our odds, we should take it."

Geralt shot him a glare, and Cahir met it head on. If it had been just the two of them, he wouldn't have cared about the risks—but Milva's experience was vast and she seemed afraid, too. And if the creature was after Ciri…

"Is there anything that might help you?" Cahir turned to Ciri.

"I don't know." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "My own understanding of this aspect of my talent is shaky at best." She looked up at Geralt. "Can you tell me more about your time with Regis here, in Toussaint? How was he?"

"Might have a better idea," the witcher said, and without further explanation walked away towards the house.

"I don't like it," Ciri muttered, then fixed Cahir with a stare. "And while we're on the subject of things I don’t like, is there anything else you're not telling me to protect me?"

Cahir sat down beside her on the soft grass.

“It didn’t feel necessary to burden you with my paranoia,” he said, carefully sidestepping the question. "I took whatever it was as a sign to not underestimate the danger. I didn’t think there was anything more to it."

"You still could have mentioned it," Ciri said, studying him, her eyes narrowed. "You do realise my days of being a sheltered princess are well and truly over?"

Cahir reached out and touched her cheek in a fleeting caress. "You have been making it quite clear."

"Not clear enough, it seems.”

Cahir didn't have a chance to react as Geralt reemerged from behind the building; when he got closer Cahir noticed the witcher carried some well worn book that he then handed to Ciri.

"What is it?" She frowned, opening it.

"Regis' notebook," Geralt said and Ciri stilled.

"And you're giving it to me to _read_?" She looked up at Geralt in confusion. "Why do you even have it?"

"Regis left some of his books here before he left Toussaint," Geralt said, then shrugged uncomfortably. "It's mostly sketches and formulas, with only a few personal notes. I was looking for something and read it be accident. You were asking about his state to be able to find him…"

Ciri kept looking at him with obvious discomfort. "Does Regis know you read it?"

"Yeah," Geralt admitted. "And… It might actually be good to have a way to find him."

"What does that mean?"

Geralt just nodded at the book. She sent him another glare before hesitantly opening it again. She flicked through a few pages, her lips pressed together. Then she closed it, handed it back to Geralt and got up.

"Change of plans," she announced. "Gonna bring him here. I shouldn't be long."

Before either of them had a chance to react, she disappeared in a flash of light.

Cahir pushed himself up to standing and looked at Geralt. "What was that about?"

"Regis...didn’t seem in a particularly great form," Geralt replied in a quiet tone. "Some of his notes were worrying. He dismissed it as past mood slips when I brought it up, but—" He shrugged. "It won't hurt to have Ciri able to locate him."

As Cahir digested this bit of information, he became increasingly aware of Geralt's inhumane eyes scrutinizing him.

"You got what you wanted?" The witcher asked, his tone flat, his face not betraying any emotion.

His choice of words and their implication immediately put Cahir on edge. "What I want—what I’ve always wanted—is to see Ciri safe and happy," he retorted, trying to keep his irritation at bay. "What I want is to hear her carefree laugh. And I was lucky to get glimpses of it, yes, if that's what you're asking."

Geralt studied him without another word; Cahir glared back in a silent challenge. He was well aware that the witcher was provoking him, that the man's crude facade was a pose to get under people's skin, to get them to talk. He hated to admit that it was working.

"Who is Dettlaff?" He changed the subject.

"A higher vampire Regis shares a bond with," Geralt replied. "He got himself entangled in a murderous revenge plot by the duchess' estranged sister. Regis asked me to help him."

Cahir's irritation thawed, but before he had a chance to react, the green light flashed again as Ciri reappeared, and with her—

"Your talent is truly astonishing, my dear; unlike anything I've ever seen," Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy remarked, turning around and taking in his surroundings.

"So good to see you again, Regis," Cahir said with a wide smile.

The vampire was beside him in an instant, embracing him and patting his back.

"And you, our favourite Vicovarian." Regis held him at arm's length, giving him a quick look over. "The years seem to have been kind to you."

"It's a cliché considering your nature, but you have barely changed," Cahir replied.

It wasn't entirely true—while the vampire looked very much like he did, back those ten years ago, there was something almost frail about him that made Cahir understand Geralt's worry.

"I have no reflection to verify the extent of your flattery, my friend," Regis smiled, then walked to Geralt; the witcher pulled him into a hug.

"Good to see you."

"And you, Geralt," Regis said, then turned back to them; he made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Now we're only missing Dandelion to enrich the occasion with a verse, Milva to distribute some justice, and Angoulême to summarise the events with a charming, if utterly inappropriate joke."

"Dandelion told me to pass on his regards, along with an invitation to Novigrad, and Milva is the reason we're here," Cahir said and smiled. "We haven't found Angoulême yet, but Ciri here may be willing to take on the mantle—"

"_Hey_," Ciri protested, her hands on her hips. "I was trying to make a decent second impression here."

Geralt shot him a look Cahir couldn't identify as Regis chuckled.

"Considering the circumstances of our first meeting, your concerns about impressions are utterly unwarranted," the vampire said to Ciri, then he looked to him and Geralt. "Ciri mentioned you might need my help?"

"Let's move somewhere more comfortable," Geralt nodded towards the pavilion they abandoned earlier.

After they were all seated, Ciri went through what they discovered, including her conclusions; Geralt added his own experiences here and there. Once they finished, Regis sat for a moment in silence

"I must say I agree with Lady Yennefer's assessment," he said slowly. "Walking into that fight unprepared, just the four of you, does feel like too high of a risk. None of you are even aware of the extent of the Weavess' powers."

"I slayed two of them," Ciri said impatiently. "Whatever powers she possesses—"

"Not to diminish your achievement, but you had an element of surprise on your side," Regis cut her off. "If I understand correctly, the Bald Mountain was their holy ground, where they were celebrated, and worshipped. And from what you said," he turned to Geralt, "her venturing outside Velen sounds unusual. I hate to say it, but this situation seems to have hints of a personal vendetta about it. It would be a grave error to rely on an element of surprise this time."

Cahir cursed quietly.

"Should've put more effort into finishing her when I had the chance," Ciri said with a grimace.

"You did your best," Geralt retorted. "We had bigger problems back then."

"Will you be able to help us?" Cahir turned to Regis. The vampire smiled his tight-lipped smile.

"I believe so. I personally try to avoid exposure to blood in any shape or form, though; I will need to find Dettlaff, if only for his talents for control of lesser creatures. I am not sure how long that will take. How urgent is it?"

"A child has gone missing in a nearby village a week ago," Ciri said with a grimace and Regis' face fell.

"That is not good at all. I shall leave immediately, then." He nodded at Ciri. "I may need to avail myself of your talent again..."

"Naturally." Ciri sent him a smile. "But I don't think you'll be allowed to leave before the dinner."

Regis shook his head with a small chuckle. "I see that some of the attitudes of the Corvo Bianco residents have rubbed off of you."

Ciri just grinned; Geralt watched their exchange with a smile.

"Let's check if Marlene needs help," he said, getting up.

Regis followed him towards the house and Ciri stood up to go with them, but Cahir grabbed her hand. She looked at him with a frown; Cahir waited till the men disappeared from view before he pulled her gently back down to the settee and searched her gaze.

"Are you still annoyed at me?"

Ciri tilted her head. "What if I am?"

She was aiming for a serious tone, but Cahir could see the laughter dancing in her eyes. Relieved, he cupped her cheek and leaned closer.

"Then I will have to come up with some way to placate you," he whispered, abandoning all caution and pulling her in for a kiss.

"In that case, I'm furious," Ciri murmured against his lips. She leaned back a little to catch his gaze with a small smile. "But for now we should join them."

"For _now_?" Cahir echoed.

She raised her eyebrows. "Shouldn't you aim to make amends as soon as possible? Only then apology is effective..."

Defeated, Cahir pressed his forehead against hers, laughing softly. "Impossible, insatiable witcher."

"A lot more accurate than ‘queen'." Ciri grinned, then nudged him. "Let's go before they start looking for us."

"I thought you didn't care?" Cahir retorted.

"I don't." Ciri shrugged. "You?"

Cahir didn't consider it necessary to reply.

* * *

"If the smell is anything to go by, you truly outdid yourself today, dear Marlene," Regis announced as the cook came into the room, carrying plates of food.

There was truly a mouthwatering selection: glazed ham in wine, roasted chicken in garlic sauce, round, puffy pastries Cahir didn't recognise; croquettes, sauteed spinach, and two or three types of vegetable sides he had not seen before. Everything looked delicious and his stomach reminded him that their breakfast was a while ago.

"Master Regis, always a charmer," the soft spoken elderly lady smiled with delight. Cahir still had trouble wrapping his head around the idea she was a former wight.

"That he is," Yennefer said as Ciri came in from the kitchen, carrying a bowl of roasted potatoes with herbs.

She put them on the table, turned towards Marlene, and wrapped her arm around the woman's frail frame; she sent Regis a smile, then placed a kiss on top of the cook's head. "He's also nearly always right."

Geralt smirked as he opened the bottle of wine and filled their glasses.

The cook leaned into Ciri's side. "You are all too kind."

"_Nearly_ always?" Regis repeated at the same time.

Ciri just laughed and hugged Marlene before taking a seat beside Cahir.

"I hope you enjoy the meal." Marlene gave the table one final look over, then nodded with satisfaction and disappeared into the kitchen.

Yennefer raised her glass. "To happy reunions."

"It's a night of full moon," Regis said with a wistful smile. "If I may paraphrase the vampire toast: may the blessing of light be upon you; may your mornings bring joy and your evenings bring peace, and may we meet again under the Harvest Moon, my friends."

"I'll drink to that." Ciri raised her glass at Regis.

Cahir filled her plate with a generous selection of all the delicacies; she glanced at him, her eyes bright with joy that made his heart stumble. It took him some effort to stop staring at her and focus on the conversation instead.

"On the subject of meeting again—you know you're welcome here anytime, and for as long as you wish," Geralt said to Regis.

"Thank you, Geralt," the vampire nodded at the witcher, and Yennefer. "Thank you both for your hospitality. For the moment though I quite enjoy the taste of my old life.”

“You went back to Dillingen?”

"Thad I did. My house, as it turned out, was still there—but it needs a lot of work after all the years of abandonment. Some of the people I used to know also came back after the war." Regis smiled. "Even Dettlaff stayed with me for a while."

"Do you know where he is now?" Geralt asked, filling his plate.

"Somewhere in Kaedwen. I don't know his exact location, but I should be able to sense him once I'm closer."

"And will he agree to help us?" Cahir asked.

"Geralt here saved his life," Regis said. "And at an enormous cost to himself, too."

"Not enormous." Geralt grimaced.

"We dragged you out of that prison, friend," Regis chided him. "Forgive me for saying so, but you were in a sorry state. And you nearly lost this place, too."

"Prison?" Cahir repeated, turning to the witcher.

Geralt gestured at Regis with his fork. "He's exaggerating, as usual—"

"Those thugs beat you up." Yennefer interrupted him, her voice cold.

"Like I said, nothing serious." Geralt shrugged, then swiftly changed the subject. "Why Kaedwen?"

"He grew restless among the humans; he needed a quieter place." Regis smiled. "He still has some trouble processing the fact that a witcher helped him."

Ciri beamed. "Always the defender of the downtrodden—even if the downtrodden are immortal vampires."

"Pot, kettle," Cahir murmured.

Ciri laughed, and nudged him with her elbow. "You were supposed to be on my side here."

Once again the weight of Geralt's gaze fell on Cahir—but Ciri was smiling at him, and so were Regis and Yennefer, and Cahir found himself relaxing, despite the witcher's scathing scrutiny.

"How was your time in Kovir?" The vampire asked.

"Cold, wet and miserable," Cahir said jokingly; Ciri's playful mood was contagious. "Although Lan Exeter is beautiful—on those two days in a year when it doesn't rain."

"I've never been that far north," Regis said. “I suppose I don’t really need to ask what lured you out of there?”

“Other than the weather?” Cahir quipped; beside him, Ciri snorted.

“I’ll make sure to remind you of that.”

Cahir looked at her with a smile. "I can't help but look forward to it."

"And you really, really should not," Ciri shot back with a grin to accompany the playful threat.

Cahir laughed and poured her more wine. Her eyes were shining and with a sharp pang of pain he realised that he had never seen her happier. Her smile softened as she raised her glass at him and he responded in kind, a dull, throbbing longing settling deep in his heart.

* * *

After the meal, Cahir stepped outside to clear his head. The sun had already set and the gently rolling hills were now basking in the silver light of the moon, peaceful and harmonious.

Cahir allowed the calm of the place to wash over him, taking a deep breath in an attempt to release the lingering unease. The witcher's silent judgement throughout the evening lacked any subtlety whatsoever, and despite all the hospitality and the genuine warmth of the place, Geralt's attitude was still grating on Cahir's nerves.

The doors behind him opened; with no sound to mark his approach, Regis came to a stop beside him.

"I have always enjoyed this view," the vampire said with a smile.

"It's beautiful here," Cahir agreed quietly. "Even though I still have trouble believing this place is real."

Regis hummed in agreement. "The harmony is an illusion, too. Scratch the surface, and the old wounds emerge."

There was an echo of centuries in the vampire's voice and Cahir turned to face him. "Have your kind lived here for long?"

"Since the beginning." Regis smiled his tight-lipped smile. "If we can claim to have any home in this world of yours, Toussaint is that home."

There was an undercurrent of sadness in his tone but Cahir couldn't think of a way to uncover its source. He decided to change the subject.

"Do you think you'll find Dettlaff?"

"Finding him is not really an issue," Regis said with a sigh. "Finding him in time to help you—that might be more of a challenge. I am forced to rely on Ciri's talent once more before you head back to Zavada tonight. I'm afraid you will have to part with her for a little while."

Cahir shook his head with a quiet laugh. "At least your mocking is kind."

"As opposed to Geralt's?" Regis chuckled. "Surely you must have foreseen such a reaction from him when you decided to pursue his Child of Destiny?"

Cahir only shrugged. Regis studied him in the moonlight.

"Do try to keep in mind that ultimately you both want the same thing."

"Only he doesn't necessarily want to see me involved," Chair said with a grimace. "But at least he isn't being openly hostile. Yet."

Regis laughed softly. "If it's any consolation, you two must make it very difficult for him to hold onto his sulking," he offered. "It is a joy to see you both happy, especially knowing the paths that led you here."

"Thank you." Cahir managed a smile, but Regis' words pulled his quiet heartache back to the surface. "I'm not sure it will be enough for this to last, though."

The vampire studied him for a moment in silence. "Sometimes all the love in the world isn't enough," he said in a gentle tone. "But it's always worth trying. If I may offer a piece of advice, however…"

Cahir felt a new kind of uneasiness creeping in. "Yes?"

"Be patient," Regis said, lowering his voice. Before Cahir had a chance to ask for clarification, the door opened again.

"There you are hiding," Ciri's voice rang behind him, followed by her soft steps.

A moment later her arm weaved around his waist, her other arm wrapping around Regis' shoulders; with a grin, she turned to the vampire.

"Now that all the social duties have been fulfilled, you are free to go, should you decide to do so."

Regis chuckled. "That indeed might be the best course of action. Let me say my farewells."

He disappeared inside the house, leaving them alone. Ciri shifted to stand behind Cahir, her other arm wrapped around him, her chin resting on his shoulder. He could feel her breath on his cheek.

"You were right," Cahir said quietly as his treacherous heart leapt in his chest, Ciri's embrace warming his very soul. "Geralt made this place feel like a home."

Ciri stepped in front of him, cupped his face and kissed him. Cahir held onto her, his head spinning.

"You will get me murdered," he whispered with a smile when they parted.

Ciri chuckled. “If there had been any risk of that, you would’ve been dead some three times today."

“Likely more, thanks to your subtlety,” Cahir couldn’t help pointing out.

Ciri gave him a look he couldn’t decipher. “You’re harbouring truly weird ideas about me if you expect subtlety.”

Instead of an answer, he kissed her. Behind them, the doors opened again, and Regis’ voice could be heard as the vampire exchanged some last farewells. Cahir reluctantly released Ciri from his embrace and turned towards the house. Ciri stepped away from him as Regis reemerged on the porch; she reached out her hand towards the vampire.

“Ready?”

“Whenever you are,” Regis replied, taking her hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go back to Dillingen first. There are a few items I might need.”

Ciri nodded, then cast Cahir a glance. “I should be back soon.”

“I’ll be here,” Cahir said quietly. She sent him a quick smile, and they were gone.

Cahir stayed on the porch; he settled on the bench by the wall and made himself as comfortable as possible as he waited for Ciri's return. He rested his head against the wooden wall and closed his eyes, his mind adrift, lulled by the slow rhythm of the place. The world felt quiet and peaceful, but Cahir was well aware this was silence before the storm.

His wandering thoughts circled back to the dinner—to Ciri, the life and soul of their little gathering. She was in her element, joking with Regis, laughing at Geralt, taking playful jabs at him, or Yennefer. Her smile had been pure joy, her playful side shining through her every word and gesture, with not a trace of the shadow that all too often would lurk in her eyes.

Cahir’s heart contracted painfully. The feeling of belonging with Ciri, of domesticity—of a _family_—was all he wanted, and all he wanted to give. He wished more than anything to be able to hold onto this moment, to find a way to make this fairytale real...

The light flashed. He opened his eyes and there she was: his bleak past, his wondrous present; his tentative dream of a future. The moonlight surrounded her like a silver halo and Cahir's heart stumbled. As if in a trance, he rose to his feet and reached out his hand. Ciri took it, meeting him halfway, her arms around him, her lips on his making his head spin.

Cahir barely register their passage through the void. When he opened his eyes, they were on a hill overlooking Corvo Bianco and the entire Sansretour valley; a stream murmured nearby, and a lonely nightingale's song carried on the breeze.

But he cared little for all that, his focus solely on Ciri, on her eyes burning with intensity that took his breath away. She pulled him into a hungry kiss and he followed her, spellbound, unable to resist. She was like fire itself, wild and free and untameable; but here and now, she was _his, _and Cahir's soul ached in wordless wonder at the thought.

The world ebbed away as he found himself drowning in her, Ciri's fingers etching invisible patterns on his skin, never to fade away. He poured all the love he still didn't let himself voice into every touch, every caress, his each whisper was one of adoration. And when Ciri shuddered and arched into him, her eyes locked with his, his name a moan on her breath, Cahir's heart shattered into pieces that could only ever be made whole again by her.

He succumbed to his own pleasure, her lips on his stifling his cry and he knew with blinding certainty that there would never be another: as long as his heart would beat, its rhythm would only ever repeat her name.

* * *

The grass was soft, the earthy scent enveloped him; the breeze felt cold on his bare, sweat-covered skin. A weight on his chest shifted—

_Ciri._

Cahir opened his eyes as the reality regained its contours. He gathered her up in his arms, limp and soft, and kissed the top of her head as she curled up in his arms.

"We should probably move," he murmured into her hair.

She grumbled some protests into his neck and he smiled. "I know. I don't want to, either. But it's getting cold."

"You're entirely too reasonable." Ciri lifted her head and caught his gaze, a small smile dancing on her lips.

"There are some folk sayings about the opposites," Cahir offered.

Ciri just laughed and shook her head. She pushed herself up to kiss him. "Fine; but let's not go back just yet," she murmured.

Cahir stroked her cheek. "Whatever my queen commands."

After they dressed up—after Ciri dragged him into the freezing cold stream and splashed him with water, giggling like a madwoman—they settled under one of the oak trees, content to simply enjoy the scenery and those last moments of peace.

The moon was already high in the sky and the soft chirping sounds of the night surrounded them where they sat. Cahir was leaning against the wide trunk; Ciri settled in his arms, her back against his chest. He nuzzled the soft skin on her neck, breathing in her scent.

"This place is enchanted," Ciri whispered, intertwining their fingers.

Cahir pressed a kiss to her temple.“You seem so happy here,” he murmured into her hair.

“I am,” Ciri agreed. “It always feels so carefree, like nothing in the world could hurt me…" She turned in his arms to look at him. "It’s an illusion, I know, but I can’t help indulging myself.”

"You should. After everything—"

She put her finger on his lips, silencing him. "No bad memories. Not tonight."

Cahir touched her cheek, put a stray strand of hair behind her ear. She gave him a little smile, the moonlight dancing in her eyes. She had never seemed more beautiful to him than in this moment. His chest tightened; he raised her chin gently and kissed her, a slow, sweet kiss, and she melted against him with a soft sigh.

"It's getting late," she murmured when they parted, and his heart leaped at the regret in her voice.

"I wish we could stay here," Cahir whispered before he thought better of it.

Ciri only smiled and trailed her fingers down his cheek. "Nothing here is real."

Cahir cupped her face. "This is," he said with emphasis.

Instead of response, Ciri pulled him into another kiss. Then she sat up and gathered the rest of her things. "Come, we should go."

Cahir quelled his protests. He knew well she was right: their reality was not of peace and harmony, and their time was running out. His heart aching, he got up, put on his shirt and took her hand. The next moment they were back on the porch of Corvo Bianco.

After they said their goodbyes to Marlene—the cook's eyes shone with tears as she hugged Ciri—they went to find Yennefer and Geralt.

The sorceress was in the library. She gestured them in as she finished an incantation. A crystal mounted in a complicated copper construction on the table in the middle of the room glowed a strange, silver light; as Yennefer snapped her fingers, it went completely dark. Yennefer nodded with satisfaction, then turned to them.

"I will have that amulet for you done soon," she said to Ciri. "Remember to take it when you come to get Geralt."

"I will. Thank you." Ciri walked over to her and wrapped her arms around her. Cahir could see Yennefer's fingers curling into Ciri's shirt.

"Promise me you'll be careful," came a whispered plea.

"I'll do my best," Ciri said.

The sorceress held Ciri at arm's length, her hands grasping Ciri's shoulders, her expression serious. _"_No unnecessary risks._ Promise me."_

Ciri took Yennefer's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I promise."

The sorceress nodded, then she turned to Cahir. He gave her a little bow.

"I'll do my best, too."

At the corner of his eye he saw Ciri rolling her eyes. Yennefer's expression softened as she gave him a small smile.

"I shall hold you to your word."

"Where is Geralt?" Ciri cut in with exasperation.

"In the laboratory," Yennefer said. "Make sure you come back to tell me everything."

The laboratory was filled with a faint, orange smoke; the stench nearly made Cahir retch. There were various substances gurgling in multiple glass vials. Ciri looked around, unperturbed.

"Swallow?" she asked.

"And White Honey, and Tawny Owl," Geralt said, getting up from the comfortable-looking armchair. "I'd rather have too many than not enough. What's the plan?"

“We’re waiting for Milva to come to Zavada; we’ll set off as soon as she does,” Ciri said. “I’ll come and get you once we’re on our way. Do you need long?”

“I’ll prepare the potions and the bombs tonight,” Geralt said. "Everything else is always at the ready."

Without warning, Ciri wrapped her arms around Geralt; the witcher held her tight.

"I suppose we'll see you very soon," Ciri murmured into Geralt's chest.

The witcher gave her a long, strong hug before releasing her. Cahir nodded at Geralt as Ciri turned to him.

“Ready?”

"Ready," Cahir said, quelling his unease.

She took his hand and he closed his eyes as the void swallowed them again—

—only to spit them back out a moment later onto the solid wooden floors of his room at the Lark. Cahir opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was a familiar figure getting up from where she sat on Ciri’s bed.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Milva said with a heavy dose of irony. “And from what I was told, a pair, too. Looks like you two weren’t wastin’ time?”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ll be the Crone’s target too,” she murmured, her fingers curling around the clasps of his leather armour. “You already seem to be. Promise me you’ll be careful. You almost got killed once because of me.”  
Cahir pressed his forehead against hers. “I don’t care about my safety, but—”  
“But I do, you fool,” Ciri scoffed, and his heart leapt in his chest.  
"That I am," he breathed and pulled her in for a kiss, silencing her before she had a chance to scold him further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta for the chapter by [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) . <3 
> 
> Between a writer's block, my hatred for action scenes, and the plague, this took waaay longer than expected. I hope you enjoy it regardless!

They set off before sunrise, to attract as little attention as possible. Milva went first, taking their horses; she was to wait for them outside the town walls. Ciri and Cahir were led by Ruben down to the cellar, where the innkeeper moved a shelf, uncovering a hidden door. With effort he pulled it open, lit a torch and led them down a narrow, winding corridor. After a third turn Cahir lost all sense of direction, and had to focus on breathing to keep his panic at bay. Ciri, as if sensing his distress, glanced back at him and took his hand in a firm grasp. He squeezed it in a silent thanks, her touch an anchor that made the shadows around them a little less suffocating.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ruben stopped at the bottom of a ladder. He placed the torch in a scone on the wall and turned to them.

"This leads to an abandoned storehouse a street away from Ropers’ Gate. The area is reasonably quiet, but you still need to be careful."

Ciri let go of Cahir's hand and hugged Ruben.

"Thank you, again," she murmured.

“It was a joy to have you here.” Ruben embraced her, then took a step back, smiling. “Good luck on your travels—and try to stay alive."

"I'll do my best." She grinned at him.

Ruben laughed. Cahir took a step closer and shook the man's hand.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said with a smile.

“The pleasure is all mine, lad.” The inn-keeper winked at him. “I’m glad you enjoyed your time here. You both are always welcome under my roof."

"Careful or we might take you up on that," Ciri retorted before climbing up the ladder.

It took her no time at all to get the hatch to open. Once she went through, she gestured at Cahir to follow. He nodded at Ruben and went up after her.

The storage room they found themselves in looked abandoned; a few shapeless, unidentifiable piles gathered dust in the corners, and a tower of empty crates stood by the far wall, but the space was left mostly empty. Cahir closed the hatch and covered it with a cloth that lay beside it, while Ciri walked over to the door and peeped through the cracks in the wooden wall.

"It looks quiet," she said, turning to him. "Let's go."

Cahir took her hand and pulled her closer. She let him, but a small frown formed between her brows. He ignored it and cupped her face in his hands.

"Whatever happens, I'll be by your side," he said quietly. "We will all be. You will not be facing it alone."

Ciri nodded slowly, her eyes wide. "Like in Stygga," she whispered.

Cahir dragged her into a desperate embrace, his arms tight around her.

"Like in Stygga," he murmured into her hair.

She looked up. "Thank you." She pressed a light kiss on his cheek. "But we really should be going now."

Cahir reluctantly released her. Ciri pushed the door open and slipped outside and he followed. The narrow alley was still deserted; faint, regular metal sounds were coming from the direction of the main square, suggesting a nearby smithy, but other than that the streets were quiet.

They made their way towards the edge of the town, careful to not be seen. The gate was manned but the lone guard was sprawled on a nearby bench, snoring quietly. Cahir offered silent thanks for this small mercy. Unbothered, they left Zavada behind and walked down the track until the road turned and the town disappeared from view.

Ciri turned to him and took his hand.

"Is it weird that I’ll miss this place?" Cahir said with a smile.

Ciri just snorted. "You're biased."

Cahir didn't get a chance to protest when Ciri's magic flashed around them and the ground disappeared from under his feet. It lasted but a blink, but it was enough to throw him off balance, and as the world reappeared, he stumbled, searching for support.

"Geralt's hate of portals is completely reasonable," he managed, resting his palm against the nearest tree, taking respite in its solidness.

At the periphery of his blurry vision, Ciri just shrugged. Behind her, he spotted Milva, sitting on her bed roll, leaning against a tall pine.

"It's nothing a person cannot get used to." Ciri turned to the archer. "Any trouble?"

"None," Milva said.

Ciri nodded. "I'll go and get Geralt. I shouldn't be long."

With that she disappeared again. Cahir walked over to where Milva sat and sank down beside her with a sigh. The archer just smiled; she opened the bag with supplies Ruben forced them to take and offered him some fruit. Taking deep breaths, Cahir grabbed an apple, his nausea abating slowly.

"Now," Milva nudged him. "Spill."

* * *

It was an hour or so later when the familiar light flashed and Ciri reappeared, riding double with Geralt. She dismounted and patted the witcher's mare on the neck.

"Roach here shows more resilience than both of you combined," she grinned at Cahir, who glared at her.

"I saw half a man exiting a portal once," Geralt growled as he got off the horse.

"Which would never have happened with me," Ciri replied with a shrug.

She walked over to where he and Milva sat and crouched down, rummaging through the food bag.

"I was locked in a coffin for a week," Cahir couldn’t help adding. "I'm not fond of dark, disorientating spaces."

"Right, ‘tis how we found you." Milva stood up and stretched. "You weren't lookin' happy."

"To put it mildly."

Ciri reached out and brushed his hand. "You need to tell me that story."

With that she stood up, an apple in her hand, and walked back to Roach. The mare's ears swiveled; she reached out to nibble on Ciri's hand, trying to get to the crispy delicacy. Ciri laughed as Roach happily devoured the fruit, and stroked her mane. Then she turned to Milva.

"Where did you say the first place you came across was?"

"Some hour ride south of here."

"Let's get going."

* * *

They followed Milva as she carefully picked her way through the forest, her chestnut mare patiently obeying her commands. The early morning sun shone through the green canopy and filled the air with shimmering light; the birds sang above their heads and it was difficult to remember the sinister reason that brought them here.

But none of them forgot it: Geralt rode at the front, with the archer, focused and vigilant, the two exchanging a few words every now and then.

Cahir and Ciri rode behind them. Ciri kept looking around, her brows furrowed; Cahir didn't let himself relax and kept his eyes and ears open for any sign of danger.

"It was somewhere here," Milva said eventually. She pulled the reins of her horse and looked back at them, frowning in confusion. "But I don't sense anything now."

Geralt stopped Roach, dismounted and slowly looked around. They kept silent to not disturb him.

After a moment, the witcher shook his head. "Nothing. The medallion is quiet too."

"Let's take a look around," Ciri said as she slipped off her mare.

Cahir was tying his horse to a fallen tree when he heard it—a faint sound on a breeze, like an echo of a soft laughter. He leapt to his feet and cast a furtive look around, but the uneven terrain ahead made it difficult to see anything—he could no longer see where Ciri was, nor Geralt and Milva. A shiver ran up his spine as the sound repeated and Cahir froze mid-step, trying to establish the direction it came from. In the distance, he spotted a pile of rocks and walked towards them, trying to be as quiet as possible. There was a movement in the periphery of his vision, but whenever he turned to look, the forest was still. His breath quickened; blood pounded in his ears as his fingers wrapped around the handle of his dagger.

The terrain dropped, only to rise again; up close the rocks were taller than he originally assumed, rising some two meters above his head. At their foot, an entrance to a small cave loomed. Cahir took a look around, but there were only trees standing silently around him. He took a step in—

—_Ciri’s eyes, distant and so cold; her voice cutting right through him, and he couldn’t understand the words, but in his bones he knew their meaning and it was the end of everything; he was drowning, he couldn’t take a breath, thick darkness closing in on him_—

“Cahir!”

He gasped for air, his hand fumbling for support. Ciri’s voice, real this time, was coming from outside the cave.

“Where are you?”

“In here,” he managed.

He heard her steps and a moment later she slipped inside, her expression full of worry.

“It was as if you disappeared,” she said, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “Is everything fine?”

He grabbed her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles.

“Now it is,” he whispered.

“What happened?”

Cahir took a breath as he tried to recall the faint memories. “I thought I heard laughter. I followed the sound and it brought me here. As soon as I walked inside, I had something like a vision.”

“Anything helpful?”

“Not in the slightest.” Cahir grimaced. “More like a collection of all my fears.”

Ciri studied him for another moment, then gestured towards the depths of the cave. “Have you checked this place?”

“Not yet.”

Ciri nodded. “Let’s see how far we can get without a light.”

They didn’t have to go far at all: a few meters from the entrance, the cave took a sharp turn, revealing a small alcove.

On a flat stone a few candles were burning; there was a bunch of flowers, and a bowl of berries. In the middle, the stone was stained dark; there was a small shape there too that Cahir could not discern. He crouched down to investigate it. Ciri hissed a curse.

In the middle of a makeshift altar lay a human ear.

“A shrine,” she muttered. “A fucking _shrine_. That must have been what the Weavess didn’t want Milva to find.”

"I don't think there's anything more for us to do here,” Cahir murmured, getting back to his feet.

“Agreed. Let's get the hell out."

"At least we know for certain that it's her," Ciri said in a grim voice as they stopped a few hours later to give the horses a break.

The place they chose was atop a gentle hill that ended with a rocky outcrop; Cahir had already checked that the rocks were entirely devoid of caves. There was a small stream murmuring nearby; they tied the horses loosely, allowing them to munch on the soft grass as they sat around and shared some of the supplies amongst themselves.

"Where is the other place you mentioned?" Geralt asked Milva, who was sitting leaning by the tree, inspecting her arrows.

"Over two days' ride," the archer said. "We need to get to the river and follow it upstream."

"I wonder where she dwells." Ciri grimaced. "And if she keeps the kid there—assuming he's still alive…."

“We’d better find her before she finds us,” Cahir murmured, focused on sharpening his dagger.

“If she didn’t already.” Milva took a neatly folded sack out of her saddle bag; she untied the leather string and unwrapped the cloth, revealing a collection of arrowheads. Then she meticulously began to work on her arrows, replacing the points one by one.

Geralt studied her for a moment. “Silver?”

“Aye. Spent too long trailing behind you, Wolf.”

The witcher smiled. “Good idea. We will need them.”

“I figured.”

“Shall we camp here tonight, or should we keep moving?” Ciri asked, tending to her mare.

“We still have a good few hours left till sunset,” Geralt said.

“This place feels—" Ciri hesitated. "Safe."

Geralt stood up to join her, and looked around, before turning to her with that rare smile of his. "Then we'll camp here."

Milva inspected the results of her work, packed away the remaining arrows, and got up. "I'll go get us some dinner then."

* * *

Cahir and Ciri went off to collect the wood. As soon as they put enough distance between them and the camp, Ciri grabbed his hand and stopped him. When he turned to her, she stepped closer.

“You’ll be the Crone’s target too,” she murmured, her fingers curling around the clasps of his leather armour. “You already seem to be. Promise me you’ll be careful. You almost got killed once because of me.”

Cahir pressed his forehead against hers. “I don’t care about my safety, but—”

“But I do, you _fool_,” Ciri scoffed, and his heart leapt in his chest.

"That I am," he breathed and pulled her in for a kiss, silencing her before she had a chance to scold him further.

Her arms wrapped around his neck and he forced himself to break the kiss and simply held her in his arms.

“Let’s go back,” Ciri murmured after a long moment of quiet comfort. “Before they start worrying that something happened to us.”

When they came back carrying armfuls of wood, Geralt already built a small fire.

“We’ll need more,” he said to them as they piled up the branches. “I’d keep the fire going throughout the night, just in case.”

They made three more trips before Geralt seemed satisfied; in the meantime, Milva came back, carrying a few rabbits. She quickly skinned and gutted them, and soon enough the smell of roasted meat made all four of them hover impatiently around the fire. Ciri went through the supplies they carried from Zavada and split the leftover bread amongst them all as Geralt fished out a bottle of wine.

“That yours?” Milva nodded at the bottle.

“Mine,” Geralt said with an unusual note of awkwardness.

“So what are you now, a respected lord or sumthin', with that winery of yours?"

Cahir quelled a distinctively ignoble spike of satisfaction at Geralt’s discomfort; Ciri beside him watched the exchange with a grin.

The witcher grimaced. “Not sure about the 'respected’ and ‘lord' parts.”

“Old age ain't a joke, eh?" Milva chuckled, then nodded at the bottle in his hand. "Here, let's try it."

Geralt passed on the wine to her. Milva took a hearty gulp and nodded.

"Not bad." She announced, passing the bottle to Cahir.

"Mutated sense of smell and taste sometimes comes in handy," Geralt said with just a hint of bitterness.

Milva nudged him with an elbow, grabbed a handful of rabbit skewers and offered them to the witcher. "Tis was a jest. Go on, eat."

The meat was tender and soft, the bread still fresh and smelling of rosemary and thyme; Cahir ate in silence, enjoying the wine and the others' banter. The sun had already set, and twilight was creeping in. Milva stretched with a yawn.

"I almost miss Dandelion's ballads, with this wine an' all," she announced, settling more comfortably on her bed roll. "How is that fool of a bard doin'?"

"He's well; his cabaret is growing in popularity." Ciri smiled.

“Another respected lord?”

"Wouldn’t go that far,” Ciri said with a chuckle. “Did you hear the tale of that heist we pulled off together?" She cast a sheepish glance at Geralt, who was glaring at her. "Well, _kind of _pulled off."

"A heist?" Milva laughed. "You're pullin' my leg now."

Cahir sat up, his curiosity spiking. "Dandelion mentioned something, but refused to give me any details."

"It's a damn miracle you're both alive," Geralt growled. "To go and rob Dijkstra's vault, of all people..."

"_Dijkstra?_" Cahir repeated, stunned. "Redania's Head-of-Intelligence-turned-Chancellor Dijkstra?"

"The very same," Ciri said with a grin. She turned back to Geralt, pointing an accusative finger at him. "I had no idea that was him—you only told me that afterwards! Not that it would have stopped us... But that only shows how well we did."

The witcher shook his head, exasperated. "Of all the stupid ideas—"

"I was getting desperate," Ciri cut him off. "All's well that ends well. Will you let me tell the story or not?"

Geralt only glared at her some more but she ignored him, and turned back to Cahir and Milva.

"This was when I first got back to Novigrad…"

Cahir leaned back against the rock, his folded cape behind his neck serving as a makeshift pillow, as he listened to Ciri's story. Between the warmth of the fire, the wine, and the camaraderie, he felt the earlier unease ebbing away.

His mood improved even more later that evening: as they were settling down for a few hours of rest, Ciri unceremoniously put her bedroll beside his. He cast her a surprised look, but she only shot him a grin before sitting down by the fire for her watch. Geralt sat beside her; she leaned against his side as they talked quietly. The cracking of the fire and the low murmur of their voices lulled Cahir to sleep almost immediately.

_Strange pink and blue signs pulsated all around them—_them?_—reflected in countless puddles on the ground, in glass walls. There was steel everywhere. The cacophony of noise deafened despite the heavy rain; unfamiliar metallic sounds filled the sticky air, wheezing, whirling, fighting for dominance._

_A small hand in his, unmistakably green eyes looking up at him from under a big hood, hopeful and trusting._

_He looked down at his hands that were covered in blood. _

_Bone-chilling fear, all-consuming despair. He was screaming, but no sound came out._

_Then nothing._

Cahir jerked up, his heart hammering in his chest and his breath coming in gasps. He cast a quick look around. Ciri was asleep beside him, curled up under her blanket, turned towards the fire. His heart was throbbing painfully as he gently touched her hair; she stirred, but didn't wake up.

Cahir sat up and hid his face in his hands, taking deep breaths to calm himself, his mind ablaze. He’d kept dreaming of Ciri in recent years, but those had been just regular dreams, brought forward by his overly cruel subconscious. The vivid visions he used to have, those that forced him to find Geralt and join him, those that drove him to believe his and Ciri's fates were linked, despite all the evidence to the contrary, and common sense—those dreams ended after Stygga.

Until now.

The details of the dream were already fading away, but the overwhelming feeling of alienness and _fear_ remained—as well as one image, sharp as an edge of a blade. Was that...could that have been...

He rubbed his face, struggling to make any sense of it all, trying to not give into the vision and both the threat and the promise it was carrying—

"A nightmare?"

Geralt sat by the fire, leaning against a rock. Judging by the moon, Cahir's own shift was starting soon. He got up, careful not to wake Ciri, and moved closer to the fire, slumping beside the witcher.

"Something like that," he murmured. "It felt like those visions of Ciri we used to get. But it didn't make much sense."

Geralt just nodded.

Cahir shuffled closer to the flames, as the hazy memories of the dream chilled his blood.

"Had one, too," Geralt said suddenly. "So did Milva."

Cahir turned to look at him. "What did you dream about?"

"Same as always." The witcher's mouth twisted in a grimace. "Losing everyone. Only this one was...more detailed."

Cahir hesitated, Regis' words ringing in his memory. He put his hand on Geralt's arm. "We’ll make sure it won't come to that," he said quietly. “Get some rest.”

Geralt sat still for a moment, his inhumane eyes boring into Cahir’s; then he obeyed without further comment. Cahir sat looking into the dancing flames, lost in thoughts, hope and worry and threads of fear weaving together into a bleak picture.

When dawn lit up the eastern sky, he woke the rest up. They rose, ate swiftly and before the first sun rays touched the treetops, the camp was packed up and they were ready to go. Very few words were exchanged that morning. Milva's eyes were red-rimmed, Cahir noticed; Geralt communicated with grunts, and even Ciri was unusually quiet.

The day started out sunny and warm as they rode out, following Milva, but everyone’s mood remained gloomy. Ciri rode beside Cahir in silence, her expression closed off and Cahir’s uneasiness intensified tenfold. But they had bigger issues to deal with, and so he kept his heartache firmly contained.

It was coming to noon when Geralt stopped his horse.

“No monsters,” he growled.

Ciri pulled her mare to a stop beside him. “What were you expecting?”

“Anything. Nekkers. Endregas. Leshens even. But there is nothing.”

"No sign of game, too," Milva looked around. “You reckon we’re walkin’ into a trap?”

It was only then that Cahir noticed that the forest around them grew quiet. A shiver ran up his spine as his hand instinctively rested on his dagger.

“We know we are,” Ciri said with a grimace. “But we’ve no choice but to continue.”

Milva nodded and spurred her horse into motion. The sun was well past zenith when they reached a wide valley, in the middle of which Ismena glittered like a ribbon of light. Behind them, Mahakam Mountains loomed on the horizon, their peaks gleaming white with permanent snow. They stopped for a quick break to let the horses rest, but they didn't linger. Ahead of them, grey clouds were gathering, whispering of a turn of the weather.

"No drowners either," Geralt muttered under his breath as the trees around them stood still, the quiet murmur of the river the only sound.

They continued in silence. The horses snorted and danced on the narrow trail that weaved along the river bank, sensing the riders’ unease. Some hours later, the clouds obscured the sun and a light rain began to fall. It started as nothing more than a drizzle, but it was unrelenting and it soured everybody’s moods even further. Cahir dragged his cloak tighter around him, but it was offering no protection against the persistence of the rain; soon he would be drenched to the bone.

Milva must have come to a similar conclusion, as she stopped her horse.

“I reckon we should find a shelter,” she said, her voice barely intelligible over the murmur of the rain against the leaves. “There should be a cave nearby.”

“Lead the way,” Geralt said; he seemed to be the least affected by the elements, his years on the Path making him seemingly immune to the adverse weather.

The archer nodded and steered her horse off the path and into the woods, stepping a little away from the riverbank. It was getting difficult to see through the curtain of rain, but as they rode into a clearing, the steep hills came into view directly ahead. Milva rode towards them, nudging her horse into a brisk canter as the forest thinned out around them and they followed, a promise of a dry shelter lifting their spirits; even horses gained a spring in their step.

It didn’t take Milva long to find what she was looking for—a shallow cave in the rock formation at the foot of a hill, barely big enough for the four of them. Geralt inspected it carefully, but other than bones of some small animals half buried in the sand that filled its floor, it didn’t seem to hide any surprises. They unsaddled the horses and tied them under a little overhang to graze. Milva collected some wood that wasn’t yet soaking wet and with the help of Geralt’s magic they managed to start a small fire. Their cloaks spread out to dry, they huddled together around the flames, drawing warmth and comfort from each other’s company.

“Do you think Regis will find Dettlaff?” Ciri asked softly, wrapping the shawl Cahir bought for her tight around her for warmth, a sight that made Cahir’s chest tight with longing. She cast him a small smile he simply had to return.

"He better," Milva murmured. "Don't like any of this."

Geralt just grunted in agreement.

“He will," Cahir said with conviction he didn’t really feel. "He said he would."

The silence fell upon them once more, worry creeping in as the rain outside intensified. Ciri leaned against Cahir’s side; Milva moved closer to the fire. Cahir ignored all his inhibitions and put his arm around Ciri, rubbing her back to offer whatever additional warmth he could. She hummed with gratitude as she snuggled closer.

The cracking of the fire and Ciri's presence went some way towards thawing the cold grip of uneasiness that held Cahir's body and mind; he found that it was getting difficult to keep his eyes open, his focus drifting away.

"Get some sleep, all of you," Geralt said, snapping him back to the present.

"What about you?" Cahir protested.

"I'll meditate." The witcher gave him a crooked smile. "No nightmares."

Cahir huffed a quiet laugh. Ciri raised her head to study Geralt with a frown.

"You sure?"

"I survived on the Path alone for quite a while," Geralt shrugged.

"Wake me up later," Ciri demanded in a voice that made it clear refusal was not an option.

Geralt smiled at that. "You spend too much time with Yen."

Ciri just chuckled and went about arranging her saddlebag into a pillow as she settled on the sandy floor, her travelling cloak within reach. Cahir followed her example; as soon as he lay down she shifted closer, completely unperturbed by the company, and all but wriggled into his embrace.

"You're impossible," he breathed into her hair, resignation, amusement and bubbly happiness mixed as he obediently wrapped his arms around her. Her satisfied smirk in response was the last thing he registered before drifting off to sleep.

Cahir was awoken by Ciri’s jerking up with a soft cry. She sat up, wrapped the shawl tighter around her and took a few deep breaths. Then she got up only to sink back down beside Geralt. The witcher turned to her and she fell into his embrace. Cahir turned away from them, not wanting to intrude, but while he willed himself to go back to sleep, he couldn’t help overhearing their conversation.

“Nightmare?”

“The worst,” Ciri murmured. “It was so_ real_. And so damn probable, too.”

“Don’t let her get into your head,” Geralt offered quietly.

“Easier said than done.” There was a note of grim humour in Ciri’s tone. “Any tips as to how?”

“Focus on what’s in front of you,” the witcher said softly. “Don’t let your mind go too far.”

Ciri snorted. “Are you really telling me to act instead of thinking?”

“Guess I am.”

"That would be the first."

There was a soft laughter, followed by a long moment of silence, the cracking of the fire the only sound.

“You might as well get some proper rest,” Ciri said. Her voice sounded stronger now. “I won’t get any more sleep tonight.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t start, _witcher_.”

Cahir realised he had never heard Geralt _chuckling_ before. There were shuffling sounds as the witcher made himself more comfortable, then everything stilled once more. Cahir tried to fall asleep, but between his worry for Ciri and the sense of looming danger, he found it was a losing battle.

Ciri shot him a glance as he sat up.

“Did I wake you up?” she asked in a hushed tone. “I’m sorry.”

“No need.” He cast her a smile as he moved beside her, rubbing his hands together in front of the fire to warm himself up. He checked his cloak and was relieved to feel it was mostly dry. He wrapped it around himself and Ciri; she rested her head against his shoulder with a soft sigh.

“It feels like that night after Stygga,” she murmured.

Cahir pressed a kiss to her temple. “It was the only thing that kept me hoping that I could one day earn your forgiveness,” he whispered.

Ciri took his hand and intertwined their fingers. “Your presence and your actions in that damned place earned you my forgiveness already.”

Cahir’s throat went dry. After everything that had happened between them, there was so much more than _forgiveness_ that he craved from her now—but he was still far too cautious to voice his hopes, bold as they were. As if reading his mind, Ciri turned and placed a fleeting kiss on his lips.

“Thankful as I am to have this unwavering loyalty of yours, it will be your undoing one day,” she murmured. “How long has it been since you pledged it to me instead of your rightful liege?”

He lost himself in her eyes, glimmering in the light of the fire. “Fifteen years?” he offered quietly.

“I’m not sure there’s much I can offer you in return.”

“You must know that all I wish for is to be by your side,” Cahir managed in a shaking voice, stopping himself before he blurted out more.

“And you should know by now that it’s not as simple as this, not in my case,” Ciri whispered.

Cahir took a breath and dared to form the one question he was dreading getting an answer to. “What are you planning to do?”

Ciri looked at him for the longest moment, her expression at once soft and sad and—he didn’t dare to believe there really was a flicker of longing in her eyes. She kissed him, again; then she drew back by just a fraction, her lips almost touching his. “Still trying to figure that out,” she breathed.

Cahir dragged her into a desperate embrace. “I wish with all my heart that everything had been simpler,” he whispered into her hair.

“In a simpler scenario, neither of us would have been here,” she pointed out quietly, face buried in the hollow of his neck. “In a simpler scenario, we still would have been sworn enemies.”

He only tightened the embrace, unable to come up with a response that wasn’t an outright declaration of being as far from her _enemy_ as humanly possible. She shifted a little to get more comfortable as she settled against him. Outside, the wind picked up and howled like a wounded animal, the rain turning into a downpour, but their little world was quiet as they sat wrapped up in each other, briefly shielded from the coming storms.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My dear girl, you brought not only our lovely witcher, but also a treat." Weavess turned to him, her head bobbing in broken, jerking movements. "And what a treat it is. Don’t you worry, darling boy, we will get to you. All in due time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter I was dreading, one that delayed this thing by two months, is finally here. Rejoice. (Kind of.)
> 
> Beta for the chapter by [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) birb. <3 They didn't even kill _too many_ semicolons this time!

The next morning was dry, but the grey, low-hanging clouds pressed down on land, threatening to split open at any moment. They rode out as soon as there was enough light to see by. Milva led them to a nearby crossing, the horses snorting and dancing on the uneven stones of the riverbed. Once they reached the other shore, the terrain changed, the low forest they rode through up till now giving way to marshland, overgrown with tall grasses and dotted with pools of flood water.

Geralt kept looking around, a deep frown on his face.

“Looks like Crookback Bog,” he said in a low voice.

“Disturbingly so,” Ciri murmured. “Didn't want to be the one to point that out. Milva, is there really no better way?”

“You wanna climb those mountains?” Milva jerked her head towards the steep rocks lining the bank they just abandoned. “Will be days if we try go around. Thought we were short on time.”

“Fine,” Ciri sighed with a grimace. “But let’s get out of this trap as fast as possible.”

Unfortunately, after the previous night’s heavy rains, that was not fast at all. Every few steps their horses would slump into deceptively shallow puddles, deep enough to risk breaking their legs. They rode single file, slowly and carefully picking their way through the bog. A few hours later, a thin fog descended from the mountains, swirling on the ground, weaving around the horses’ hooves, making picking safe spots to step on nigh impossible.

“‘T was dry last time I was ‘ere,” Milva murmured. “But we ain’t far."

Cahir's horse nearly tripped over, splashing the water all around as Cahir desperately fought to keep them both upright. Once they were on a more solid patch of land, he looked around. Far ahead, a line of the forest loomed. It was impossible to judge the distance; the landscape was grey and flat, like a painting. But the promise of an end of this muddy nightmare gave Cahir some consolation.

More clouds gathered on the horizon now, he noticed; they were darker too. One was moving towards them—and _fast_—and the longer Cahir observed it the more suspicious its behaviour seemed to him.

“Geralt!” he shouted. The witcher, who rode a little distance away with Ciri and Milva, turned around. Cahir just pointed out to the cloud.

Geralt shielded his eyes and studied the sky for a moment, still as a statue; the next moment the stillness was gone as the witcher spurred his horse towards the edge of the swamp.

“Hurry!” he shouted at Cahir, who needed little encouragement.

He kicked his horse into a brisk step; the stallion protested with a whine but moved obediently. Cahir patted its neck in encouragement, urging it on. The fog thickened, and visibility worsened even further. Far ahead, Cahir could just about see Ciri and Milva reaching the spot where the ground began to rise. He managed to spare a thankful thought to unspecified deities when the water around him all but boiled and five drowners emerged out of nowhere.

His horse let out a loud whinny; Cahir tried to stay in the saddle, but the stallion leaped to the side in panic and the movement sent Cahir flying into the nearest pool. He scrambled up, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes, his sword at the ready. The monsters abandoned his horse, who was bucking and jumping, kicking at them with his front hooves, and went after Cahir. He sliced the nearest one in half, but the four seemed to have decided to attack at once. As he ducked out of their way, he saw more slimy shapes rising from the moorland all around him. Blood pounding in his ears, he slowly walked back, drawing small circles with his blade to keep the nearest drowners at bay. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a patch of a drier land and he rushed for it, relieved; trying to fight knee-deep in a swamp was a suicide.

The familiar green light flashed, and Ciri appeared beside him, her sword already drawn.

"Finally, some action." She sent him a feral smile, before lunging for the nearest drowner and slicing its head off.

Cahir didn’t share her enthusiasm, but he had no time to reply. More and more creatures crawled out of the swamp towards them; he parried the clutches of one, spun around to cut down another, but three more already took their place. He swung his sword around, trying to gain some space. He was trying to locate Ciri, but she seemed to be in three places at once, the flashes of light and the trail of blood marking her passage.

A small part of his mind couldn’t help but admire Yennefer’s acute foresight.

“We need to get out of here!” Cahir shouted at Ciri, wherever she was. He cut his way back to his horse, who was still dancing wildly; every now and then one of its kicks would turn another drowner’s head to a pulp.

But they were still_ coming_.

Ciri appeared beside him, one of her hands on his, the other on his horse’s neck.

“Hold on,” she said, and a blink later, they were on the dry ground, where Geralt and Milva waited. The drowners screeched at them from the swamp, but none followed, and Cahir patted his horse’s neck and pressed his forehead against its soft mane, taking deep breaths.

Geralt cast him a glance. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Cahir said, then turned to Ciri. “Thank you.”

She shot him a smile that faded away almost immediately.

“This was but a start,” she said. “If by some miracle Weavess remained oblivious to our presence up till now, I just loudly announced myself.”

As to prove her words, Milva stood in the stirrups, her bow raised, arrow pointing towards the skies. The strange cloud Cahir spotted earlier was swirling closer, but never moving close enough for them to see it properly.

But Milva’s bow was climbing in a steady arch, higher and higher; the archer froze for a heartbeat, still as a statue, then released the arrow. Cahir traced its trajectory, his breath held. Just when he thought the range was too wide after all, the cloud exploded in loud cackling, the swarm of black birds now diving directly for them.

“Careful!” Geralt shouted, raising his hand.

Cahir pulled Ciri to him and ducked behind a nearby rock before she had a chance to protest. Milva spurred her horse, taking a wide circle, aiming and shooting again and again; Geralt made some complicated gesture and a loud sound like a hollow explosion followed. The birds dispersed in all directions with a loud cry.

Cahir straightened up and looked around. "Why aren't the drowners attacking?"

The swarm of creatures were crawling in circles at the edge of the swamp, screeching at them, bur keeping their distance.

Geralt grabbed his medallion. "Because something bigger is coming," he murmured.

"Milva, take the horses someplace safer," Ciri said, grabbing her saddle bag. "I'd rather not have them panic here."

"Shouldn't we find a better spot too?" Cahir asked, looking around. They were on a gently rising side of a small hill that ended in a wall of the trees. It was far too exposed for his liking; not a place he would've chosen to be attacked by gods-know-how-many monsters.

Milva shook her head. "Dense forest for two hours' ride at least. Can't move fast."

"Don't think we have two hours," Geralt said, turning around slowly, his silver sword at the ready. "Don't think we have much time at all."

A moment after Milva rode off leading their horses, the ground under their feet trembled.

"What is this devilry?" Cahir whispered.

Geralt closed his eyes and listened for a moment. "A chort. Two of them."

Ciri cursed under her breath; Geralt grabbed two vials from his belt, together with a piece of cloth and threw one to Cahir, the other to Ciri. "Put it on your blade."

"What _are_ they?" Cahir asked, covering his sword with the oil as instructed.

"Deadly speed and strength on four legs, little agility, no brain," Ciri recited, focused on her blade as the rumbling got closer. "But if one slams into you, you're gone. Duck and attack from the side is the only option. I’ll be the bait to try and lure them towards the trees, so be ready if I manage to trick them into hitting something.”

Cahir glared at Ciri but she just grinned back as she dropped the empty vial, and spun her blade in a complicated sequence. “I can teleport, remember? Oh, and they heal quickly, too."

"Splendid," Cahir managed to say, when the first monster crawled out from the forest—and immediately charged at him.

_Deadly speed_ was not an exaggeration, some small part of Cahir’s mind pointed out as he lunged out of the way of the incoming mountain of muscle and teeth. He had just enough time to notice a pair of massive horns as the chort flew beside him, only to stop a few meters past him; Geralt jumped to its side, his blade a blur of silver.

But that was all Cahir managed to register. The second monster crawled from between the trees, and he barely managed to scramble to his feet when he had to dodge another furious attack. He managed to deal a blow himself as the creature flew past him, saliva dripping from its fanged maw, but even coated with Geralt's oil, his blade seemed to be doing little damage; the chort just shook its head and turned, looking for its next target.

Remembering Ciri's words, Cahir moved backwards in the direction of the forest line, his sword at the ready, his eyes never leaving the scene in front of him.

Further in the distance, the drowners still swarmed around, mindlessly climbing in and out of the swamp. But Cahir's attention was focused on the more imminent danger—and on Ciri and Geralt. He realised he had never seen the witcher fighting monsters before; those few times when they drew blades together, it had always been against humans. And while Cahir had been impressed by Geralt's skills then, watching him now, doing the very thing his body was conditioned to do was nothing short of awe-inspiring. It was like a deadly dance, all skill and single-minded focus, luring the monster into a trap, time and time again, to try and take it down.

Ciri was everywhere and nowhere all at once; it was impossible to keep track of her. She was flashing past the other chort, distracting it, irritating it, getting it to chase her only to disappear at the very last moment, but not before slashing it with her blade. Once she spotted Cahir, she stopped abruptly. She gave him a wink before turning back to the monster.

"Come here, little one," Cahir heard her teasing it, her sword doing small circles as if hypnotising the beast. The chort growled, spitting saliva all around in fury, and launched itself at her. Ciri stood still as a statue and Cahir held his breath. If she miscalculated, if she moved too late, if she—

Ciri blinked out of existence just as the chort got within an inch of her, only to reappear beside Cahir. The beast charged at full speed through the spot where Ciri had been just a moment ago, and, unable to stop, hit the tree beside them, and collapsed.

They moved in synch; Ciri jumped to the other side of the knocked off monster, their blades rising at the same time as they dealt vicious blows, the brownish blood staining the grass underneath their feet. The chort wriggled for a moment, its frantic movements making Cahir worry it would heal from the wounds they inflicted; but its movements stilled, then stopped altogether.

Ciri shot him a grin; Cahir wiped his forehead and turned, only to see Geralt in a deadly pirouette, finishing the other beast.

A brief silence fell upon the hill; then a strange sound reverberated through the air. It took Cahir a moment to realise that someone was _clapping_.

"Beautiful," a shrill, hissing voice announced with a sick sort of a cheer. "What a spectacle. We knew we could count on you."

"_You_," Geralt spat, his tone full of venom.

Cahir turned towards the voice and was met with the most disgusting sight imaginable. Against the backdrop of a forest, a hunchback woman stood, covered in rags and surrounded by a swarm of flies. Cahir noticed with repulsion an extra pair of limbs dangling at her waist. Her talons for hands were opening and closing rapidly, as if she was itching to grab onto them; one of her eyes was hidden under a dirty cloth, the other covered by excrescence. He failed to suppress a shudder.

"My dear girl, you brought not only our lovely witcher, but also a treat." Weavess turned to him, her head bobbing in broken, jerking movements. "And what a treat it is. Don’t you worry, darling boy, we will get to you. All in due time."

"You will do no such thing," Ciri hissed, her blade raised.

"Sweetling, we should not think you have much to say in the matter," the Crone cooed in her creaking voice. With a nightmarish chuckle she took out what looked like a little doll. She stroked its hair and a shiver ran down Cahir's spine upon realisation that the hair was silver. "Yes…Not much at all. But we are forgetting our manners! You are our honourable guests, after all. Hope you enjoy what we prepared for you!"

Another creature straight from the pits of hell lurched out of the forest; similar in looks to the chorts they slain, but three times their size. Geralt behind them cursed; Cahir strengthened the grip on his sword, and glanced at Ciri—

—who stood motionless, as if frozen to the spot, her eyes staring directly ahead, empty and unseeing, her arms limp by her sides.

"Ciri?" Cahir reached out to her, touching her arm, but she slipped out of his grip and took a hesitant step towards Weavess. She stumbled, her blade slipping out of her hand, but she kept walking.

"Ciri!" Cahir shouted, trying to quell his panic.

He lunged towards her, to stop her, to shake her awake—but the monster chose that moment to charge at him, effectively cutting him away from her. Cahir cursed and jumped out of the way; the creature turned, its head hanging low, a growl rumbling through its body. Cahir noticed what looked like a third eye on its forehead as the creature took a slow step towards him, then another. Cahir stumbled as he raised his sword and took a few steps back to maintain some distance between himself and the monster. With a sudden burst of desperation he realised the creature was pushing him away from Ciri and towards Geralt.

"Ciri!" he tried again, screaming at the top of his lungs.

"Avoid its eye!" Geralt shouted behind him. "Fiends hypnotise their victims!"

"She has Ciri!" Cahir shouted back. “Controlling her somehow!”

"I _know_! We need to get rid of this, and fast! Try to stay on its side!"

"Sweet girl," the Crone's voice reached Cahir and froze his blood. "Come now. Look; _see? _There’s no point in running."

With a wild shriek, Milva galloped from between the trees, shooting at the Crone. But Weavess only raised her hand and upon her command the gurgling noises behind Cahir grew louder—grew closer. He risked glancing back, only to see the swarm of drowners charging their way.

"Milva!" Geralt screamed beside him. "Aim for its third eye!"

The archer spurred her horse, steering it around the monster, shooting arrows one after another. The fiend seemed to take no notice, and stood still, his eyes tracing Cahir. One arrow seemed to hit its target as the monster roared and looked around for a new victim. Milva was a blur of movement, a rain of arrows falling onto the fiend’s back; the beast ignored her and launched itself onto Geralt.

That was all Cahir could see as the drowners caught up with him. He dodged one, cut down another two, but in the tight space two others managed to get near enough to lunge at him. He avoided them as much as he could; one gurgled and fell, an arrow sticking out of his back, but the second slashed at his side, ripping apart his leather armour, drawing blood. Cahir yelped in pain; the scent of blood seemed to lure more monsters towards him. He could no longer see Ciri; all he could hear was Geralt screaming in helpless fury.

He drew himself up, ignoring the pain, and blinked, as red mist filled his vision. He shook his head to clear his mind, but the mist still swirled all around him, until it suddenly solidified into a shape more nightmarish than the drowners. A vaguely human posture, fangs bared, the talons for hands stretched out, ready to attack. Cahir felt the last thread of hope slip away. They were badly outnumbered as it was; they stood absolutely no chance against another type of a monster.

But Geralt just laughed. "Dettlaff!"

"Witcher," the creature acknowledged in a guttural tone, before throwing himself at the drowners and cutting them down like blades of soft grass.

Geralt stretched out his hand in a complicated gesture and flicked his wrist. The drowners fell down, flattened by the force of his magic, and a clear path appeared between them and the forest.

"Get Ciri!" Geralt shouted.

Cahir didn't need to be told twice. Elbow pressed against the wound on his side, he ran towards where he last saw Ciri—only to stop at the sight before him.

Regis was standing behind the Crone, his features twisted in a manner similar to Dettlaff, but still unmistakably _his,_ his talons wrapped around Weavess' neck.

"_Release her_," he hissed in a voice Cahir had never heard from him before. "And recall the monsters. _At once_."

"She killed my sisters," the Crone whined, her tone full of venom. "It is my _right—_"

Ciri kneeled on the ground a little away from him, her head hanging low. She looked small; she looked _broken_. Cahir couldn't help a sound that tore out of his lips.

Regis shifted his attention to him, just for a blink, but it was all the Crone needed. With a loud cackle she dissolved into a cloud of crows that lunged towards Cahir. She materialised just behind him; startled, he spun around, slashing his sword at her in a wide angle, but she only giggled and changed into birds again. Cahir lost his balance; stumbled and fell to his knees. He gasped in pain as the impact opened his wound, his blade falling out of his grasp, his hand scrambling blindly for support.

The Crone cackled in triumph as she reappeared, leaning over him, her face inches away. Cahir fought the wave of revulsion and horror at the sight of flies crawling out of her blind, all-seeing eye. His fingers found his father’s dagger and gripped its handle tight. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed grey mist swirling around them.

As her claws reached for him, he blindly pushed the dagger upwards.

There was an inhumane shriek that pierced the air, the Crone's cry at the verge of Cahir's hearing as her body collapsed on top of him, jerking wildly. Struggling not to vomit, he pushed her away as he jumped to his feet; ignoring the sharp pain and the bleeding, and rushed to Ciri.

She was moving slowly; Regis was kneeling beside her, his features back to their human form, lifting her head gently to look into her eyes.

"I don't sense any damage," he said softly to Cahir as he collapsed beside them. "I believe it was just a form of a trance..."

Weak with relief, Cahir scooped Ciri up into his arms, whispering her name, again and again, like a breathless prayer.

She gasped for air, as if waking from a nightmare.

"Cahir…?"

"She's gone." He leaned back to cup her face, oblivious to anything but her. Monsters ceased to matter; others could take care of them. There was only Ciri, her dazed, confused eyes full of pain he needed to chase away in any way he could. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. "You're safe. She's gone. For good."

Ciri's breath hitched; she hid her face in his chest, her body shaking.

"What was it that she did to you?" Cahir whispered after a moment as her trembling abated. He tightened his embrace, weaving his fingers in her hair. "Do you remember?"

"She showed me my life," came a muffled response. Then, quieter, "Just hold me. Please."

"You're wounded," Regis said to him with concern. "Allow me—"

"It can wait," Cahir snapped, ignoring the throbbing pain.

He was faintly aware the others joined them.

"Ciri will be fine," he heard Regis' reassuring voice, his words undoubtedly directed at Geralt. "The trance effects need to wear off."

“Your timing couldn’t have been better,” Geralt said with audible relief.

“I personally would have preferred a little less dramatic set up,” Regis said apologetically. “But we came as fast as we could. Milva, so good to see you again.”

“Vampire.” The archer’s voice came from somewhere behind Cahir. "That your friend?"

"That is indeed Dettlaff, my dearest companion. Dettlaff, these are my friends I told you about."

"That you never stopped talking about." The other vampire spoke in low, pleasant drawl; the earlier guttural notes were all but gone from his voice.

Curious, Cahir raised his head to check on their little group. They stood in a semi-circle around the spot where he and Ciri sat; Dettlaff stood beside Regis, his features now entirely human, and studied Cahir with mild interest.

"Are you hurt too?” Regis nodded at Geralt and Milva.

The witcher shook his head. "Nothing a few hours of rest won't fix."

“I've a cut on me leg," Milva said with a grimace. "One of the whoresons got me. Would you mind...?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you both for your help,” Cahir said with emphasis.

"Still need to find the kid," Milva pointed out, through clenched teeth as Regis cleaned her wound and Cahir felt a wave of shame; preoccupied with Ciri he’d completely forgotten about the other part of their task.

Ciri shifted in his arms. "Milva is right," she murmured. She disentangled from his embrace and got to her feet, rubbing her eyes. "We're not done here yet."

"I'll get the horses," the archer said; she mounted her mare, trying not to strain her injured leg, and rode off.

"Will you let me tend to your wound now?" Regis asked Cahir in a tone that made it very clear it wasn't a question.

Cahir just sighed and got up—and almost fell to the ground. It was only for Regis and Ciri supporting him that he remained upright.

"Humans," Regis muttered with exasperation as he lowered Cahir back down and removed his armour. He was still scowling as he took out a few flasks and bandages out of his bag. "You're lucky the drowner hadn't caught you a few inches lower, or you'd have spilled your internal organs all over this charming place. As is, you _only_ lost a lot of blood."

"Am fine," Cahir managed.

"You are not. You just experienced the effect of adrenaline wearing off," Regis said pointedly as he disinfected the wound. Cahir winced in pain; the vampire handed him a bottle of alcohol. "I have to put stitches. It'll hurt. Drink."

Cahir did as instructed; then he clenched his teeth as Regis' needle pierced his skin. When the vampire finally finished and put on a dressing over the wound, the relief almost made Cahir faint.

Milva came back leading their horses; Regis was packing up his medical supplies, still muttering under his breath, when he stilled and raised his head.

"Fire," he said, his voice tense.

Geralt was in the saddle in an instant. "Lead the way," he snapped at Regis, who dissolved into a grey mist, with Dettlaff following suit.

"Go," Ciri said. "We'll find you."

The witcher nodded as he and Milva spurred their horses into a pace as fast as the terrain allowed.

"Are you feeling strong enough to move?" Ciri asked, crouching down beside him.

Cahir took a breath and assessed his state. "I think so," he said as he looked up at her. Her eyes looked less haunted now, but she still didn't seem fully herself. "How about you?"

Ciri shrugged. "I'm fine."

Cahir reached out and ran his fingers gently down her cheek. "I can see that something is still bothering you."

Citi hesitated. "She...showed me things," she said slowly. "My choices. Some of their consequences. Some likely future scenarios. It was not all pretty—most of it was not, in fact. I...need to figure out how much of it to believe. How much I can change." She took a breath. "Sometimes I really, _really_ hate my bloodline."

Cahir nodded, trying not to get dizzy. "Just remember we're all here if you need us."

She jerked her head up as if in surprise, then she gave him a small smile. There wasn't much joy in it, but it was still a smile.

"Thank you. Come, let's find the others."

* * *

It took Ciri close to an hour to find Geralt and the rest, judging by the bleak sun that every now and then peeked through the dense canopy. The forest surrounding them was dark; the ancient oaks grew close to one another, their moss-covered trunks twisted in nightmarish shapes, their branches and roots intertwined. They rode slowly, carefully picking their way as to not injure the horses. It was strangely quiet, too; even with the crone dead, the place felt haunted.

Ciri rode in silence, but whether focused or lost in thought, Cahir had no way of knowing. However, her mood seemed to be a little lighter. Thankfully she chose not to teleport them; whatever her reasoning for that was, Cahir’s relief was immeasurable.

He could now smell the smoke that had alerted Regis earlier; a few moments later they rode out onto a small clearing. In the middle, scorched remains of a hut stood, the blackened and twisted timbers like a skeleton of some legendary sea monster. A thin girl of maybe eight summers and a scruffy-looking boy stood by the rubble, their eyes wide in shock. Regis was tending to them, wiping away the soot, putting some ointments on their burns, all the while talking to them in his soft, reassuring voice. Milva was sitting beside them, fixing her arrows; Geralt and Dettlaff were inspecting the hut remains.

"Good, you're here," the archer said as they pulled their horses to a stop.

Ciri slipped off her mare and walked over to their little group. Cahir decided to stay in the saddle; his freshly stitched wound was throbbing with pain and he didn’t fancy pulling himself up onto his horse again. He only let go of the reins so that his stallion could nibble on the grass.

“Any trouble?” Ciri asked.

“None. We just had to get the kids out of the burning house. She had a cellar built where she kept them—” Geralt’s voice trailed off, anger evident in the set of his jaw.

Without another word, the witcher stretched out his hand; in his palm, a wolf medallion lay, the exact same as his. Ciri let out a sob and threw her arms around him.

"You remembered." Cahir heard her muffled voice.

"Of course," Geralt replied quietly. "One of the reasons I wanted to find her hideout."

Milva packed up her arrows and looked up at them. "Let's get out of this wretched place."

"There is a deer path you can use," Dettlaff said. "I can check ahead for an appropriate spot for you to set up a camp."

Regis smiled at him. "That sounds wonderful. I would love to stay with our little patients here, assuming one of you, friends, allowed me to ride with you."

"Have my mare," Ciri told him, putting the wolf medallion on her neck. "She's impatient, but not many things scare her. She shouldn’t give you much trouble.”

“Like rider, like horse, I see,” Regis gave Ciri a little bow; she rolled her eyes in mock offence.

Cahir did his best to keep his amusement contained, but his expression must have betrayed him as Ciri took one glance at him, and huffed a laugh.

"Both of you are_ impossible_."

The vampire chuckled; then he crouched down and smiled at the children. "Would either of you want to ride with me, now that Ciri kindly offered us her mare?”

The kids glanced at each other, then back at Regis. Their shock was wearing off, their curiosity spiking.

"Can...I?" The boy began hesitantly.

Ciri kneeled down beside them. "Are you Anti?" As the boy nodded a little suspiciously, she smiled. "Your mum is very worried about you."

"She...the lady said she will bring me back home." Anti shuffled his feet. "That t'was too dangerous to go on me own…"

"She told me I could help 'round the house," the girl chimed in. “She brought me here after she found me sleepin’ in the forest—”

“Sleeping in the forest?” Ciri repeated, turning to her.

“Aye. I...Blacksmith’s wife, she...she told me to go. That I was bold and no help.” The girl’s lip trembled and a few tears worked their way down her soot-covered cheeks.

Ciri gave her a warm smile. "What's your name?"

"Isa."

"Well, Isa, we know a nice place we can take you to; Milva lives there. And if you like it, you can stay there for as long as you wish. Would you like to go with us and see it?"

Isa glanced from Ciri to Milva, then her head bobbed vigorously in agreement. Ciri looked at Milva in a silent question; the archer nodded, then turned to the girl.

“Want to ride with me, wee one?”

There was more nodding, followed by a reverent whisper, “I like your bow.”

"Tell you what,” Milva smiled, getting up. “I’ll show it to you later, once we’re rested. Properly like.”

Regis looked around their little group as Geralt lifted Anti and sat him onto Ciri’s mare. “Are we all fit enough to ride?

"The further we get from here, the better I will be," Cahir said with a feeling.

"Aye, well said." Milva mounted her horse; together with Ciri they got Isa into the saddle and she spurred her horse into a gentle trot.

Regis followed her, and Cahir nudged his stallion to go after them. Ciri climbed onto Roach and settled comfortably against Geralt. The pace Milva set was slow, but the deer path Dettlaff recommended was comfortable enough to allow them to make decent progress.

The forest around them changed, gradually shedding its haunted look. The oaks were now interspersed with beeches, with a few maples and birches for company. The late afternoon light was seeping down through the leaves as they made their way back slowly towards the river.

Dettlaff was waiting for them on a little meadow; in the distance, Ismena sparkled in the sun.

“The marshes start right ahead,” the vampire said. “It may be best to wait till the morning to cross.”

“Agreed,” Geralt said. He waited as Ciri slid off Roach with an innate grace, before dismounting. “There may still be surprises lurking around. Given a choice, I’d rather face them rested.”

Cahir managed to maintain some dignity as he got off his horse. His muscles were stiff and screamed of abuse, and his injured side still throbbed painfully. Now that the adrenaline had well and truly worn off, he wanted nothing else but to lay down and not move, preferably for a week.

He wasn’t the only one, it seemed; Milva dropped her saddle bags and sank to the ground with a sigh of relief, and the first thing Geralt did was drink another vial of potion. He caught Cahir’s gaze, and shrugged with a grimace.

“Speeds up healing,” he grunted. "Glad this is over."

As the witcher started building a small fire, Regis busied himself with checking everyone’s injuries, while Ciri tended to the horses. Dettlaff disappeared into the forest again, then came back carrying a few hares. Milva sent the vampire a glare that clearly confused him, but even she didn’t have the strength to argue. She unfolded her bedroll and lay down, and Cahir followed her example, settling beside her.

Once the fire was going and the meat skewers were roasting on a wooden construction Dettlaff built, the kids huddled together as close to the flames as possible, casting all the grown-ups hesitant glances. Ciri sat down beside them.

“Are you two hurt?” she asked softly.

“Not much,” Anti replied quietly. “A wee burn, is all. But—”

“Yes?”

“Is the lady...is she gone?"

"She is," Ciri said.

Anti's lip trembled, much as he tried to stop it. "But…she promised…” He cast Ciri a tearful glance. "How do I go home now…?"

Ciri smiled at him. “We’ll get you to your mother, safe and sound. Don’t worry.”

“But how—”

“I’ll tell you a secret.” Ciri winked at him, and got a tentative smile in response. “I will use _magic_.”

Anti blinked away the tears, gawking at her; Isa let out a squeal. “_Real_ magic? Show us!"

“Not now,” Ciri said, shaking her head. “I’m very tired, and you must be too. Tonight we rest.”

There were some dramatic sighs and disappointed eye-rolling, but that was forgotten as Dettlaff handed them over a skewer each. Both children enthusiastically devoured the food, then curled up by the fire. Ciri covered them both with her cloak and remained sitting beside them, staring into the flames in silence.

Cahir listened to their exchange with a quiet ache in his heart. The nagging worry that Ciri was purposefully keeping her distance from him crept into his mind, and took roots. He was desperate to have her close, to console her, to chase away the shadow lurking in her eyes—but if he had learnt anything about her in the past few weeks, it was that she cherished her space more than anything.

He forced down the helplessness and worry and decided to try and get some rest. Milva was already fast asleep beside him; Geralt was sitting a little away from the fire, talking to Regis and Dettlaff in quiet voices. The witcher caught his gaze and nodded at him; Regis sent him a smile.

Befriending higher vampires had numerous advantages, Cahir decided; after the days spent under the shadow of a nameless threat, the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing that could be a danger to them while Regis and Dettlaff were around brought a peace of mind Cahir did not remember in a long time. He wrapped himself in his cloak and willed his body and mind to rest.

He thought he would lay awake for hours, his worry over Ciri gnawing at him, but he’d underestimated how exhausted he was. He barely closed his eyes and the next thing he registered was a hand wrapping around his waist as Ciri curled up beside him. He snapped awake to the sight of her eyes, sad and thoughtful in the dim starlight.

Without a word, she placed a quick, soft kiss on his lips; he cupped her face as he searched her gaze.

“Hi,” he whispered, and was relieved to see the corners of her lips quivering up in a small smile.

“Hi back,” she murmured, and his heart nearly stopped at this echo of the night in the Lark, _their_ night, that miraculous, incredible night that changed everything. He wrapped his cloak tight around them both.

“Feeling better?”

“A little.” Ciri rested her head on his chest, then added in a barely audible whisper. “The visions that the Crone sent you. Do you remember them? Do you think they'll come true?”

“I don’t know.” Cahir pressed a kiss to her hair. “Some of them, I hope not. But you were the one whose spirit she was trying to break. I wouldn’t trust anything she showed you...”

Ciri lay in silence for a long moment; Cahir began to think she fell asleep, but then she took his hand, intertwining their fingers.

“I hope you’re right,” she murmured. “By gods, I hope you’re right.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Corvo Bianco's doors are always open to you—both of you," Geralt turned to Dettlaff, who nearly dropped his portion of meat. The witcher looked around their little group. "All of you."  
His eyes met Cahir's for a brief moment, and Cahir's breath caught in his throat.  
Ciri grinned at Geralt. "It does look like you will be the first witcher to die in their own bed. Just imagine what Vesemir would say..."  
"That I'm getting old and soft no doubt." Geralt said with a self-deprecating shrug. "Can't argue with that. And definitely can see the appeal of having a home."  
"It is a gift, often taken for granted by many," Regis said quietly.  
"Not by anyone here," Ciri said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta for the chapter by [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) birb. <3 Extra suffering also courtesy of them!

Contrary to Geralt’s worry, their return journey through the marshes was uneventful. They rode slowly in a single line, following the witcher who carefully picked the way across, his eyes alert to any danger. It took a while to pass safely, but they encountered no drowners or any other monsters. And once they crossed Ismena, everybody’s mood improved significantly. Anti and Isa, rested and their bellies full, warmed up to them too. They were chirping away, asking Regis and Milva thousands of questions as they rode.

They stopped to rest a few hours after noon. Regis led them to where Dettlaff was waiting, at the edge of a little meadow basking in the sunshine; a small clearing among graceful birches, with a little stream murmuring nearby. The serenity of their surroundings was a stark contrast to the last few days, and Cahir couldn't help a giddy relief that overcame him.

Even Ciri was smiling again as she slid off Roach and helped Isa and Anti off the horses. The kids took the opportunity to stretch their legs and immediately started chasing each other around the little clearing, their laughter echoing in the peaceful silence of the forest.

“Are we riding further today?” Ciri asked, looking around.

“Wouldn’t mind stayin’ somewhere I don’t have to watch me back,” Milva grunted, dismounting.

“Another day or two to get back to the Merchants’ Trail,” Geralt said, then turned to Regis. “How long are you planning to keep us company?”

Regis glanced at Dettlaff, who tensed a little.

“We might go our way tomorrow,” Regis said. “As I understand, you are all heading back to the temple—well, most of you are,” he corrected himself with a smile, looking to where the kids were playing. “And while Mother Superior does sound like an open-minded person, I wouldn’t want to test how far that stretches.”

Ciri chuckled. “She’d survive—but there’s no need to torture poor Dettlaff.”

Dettlaff sent her a glare; she smiled at him gently. “That was only a joke. You saved our lives back there—”

“It is nothing,” the vampire interrupted her, his voice low, suspicion and discomfort lingering in his expression. “I will forever remain in Geralt’s debt.”

“It is not nothing,” Cahir protested, joining Ciri. She shot him a small smile; Dettlaff frowned at them. “Our situation was pretty desperate before you showed up.”

“Let us then celebrate a happy ending before we part ways,” Regis cut in gently. “This place seems perfect for that.”

"We're staying here?" Isa ran up to them, out of breath.

"We are, you little rascal." Milva ruffled her hair affectionately. "Go on, be of use and get Geralt some wood for a fire."

The kids obeyed, but still attempted to be everywhere at once. With Ciri's help they gathered the wood and fallen branches, running up and down the clearing and bringing them to Geralt. Then they sat with the witcher, flooding him with questions as he was building the fire; they helped Cahir as he tended to the horses. Then they spent some time following Milva around like two shadows, until the archer chased them away, laughing, and disappeared in the forest.

Finally Regis managed to bribe both with fresh berries he picked to get them to sit down on a large fallen log near the fire and stay still for long enough for him to tend to their burns. Dettlaff joined them, perching atop the log beside them, immediately drawing the kids' attention.

Cahir couldn't blame them—he himself found the vampire fascinating. While Regis had the open, friendly demeanor that never failed to win people over, his companion was a complete opposite. Brooding and quiet, the mystery surrounded him like a fine cloak; he was clearly keen on keeping his distance. And yet, the interactions he'd had with their little group were amicable—at least until Ciri’s joke.

Indulging in his curiosity, Cahir joined their little group and sat on the ground, leaning against the log beside Isa. The girl looked at him with a grin; Anti was busy studying the vampire with a serious scowl.

“Ciri promised to show us magic,” he said eventually. “But she didn't, and then we rode for a-ages, and yet you're waiting for us here. Do you use magic too?”

Dettlaff shrugged with a smile. “Something like that,” he said.

“Oh!” Anti grinned with excitement. “What else can you do?”

“He can make anything you can imagine out of wood,” Regis chimed in with a smile.

Isa looked between them, her eyes shining. “Anything?”

Dettlaff smiled at Regis, then turned back to the kids. “What would you like?”

“A wild boar!”

"A crow,” Isa said at the same time. “Or...a leshy!”

Anti glanced at her, clearly disappointed with himself. “Ooh… I want a leshy too!”

“How do you even know about leshens, eh?” Ciri said as she walked past them; she nudged Anti's shoulder.

“Everyone knows about them!” Isa scoffed. “They’re like...forest guards?”

“Yeah!” Anti nodded vigorously. “Last year, a hunter in our village found one; came back without an arm, so he did!”

“A leshen it is,” Dettlaff said.

“I could probably attempt that crow." Cahir smiled at Isa, who beamed in response. “I leave the leshen to the specialist.”

Milva came back a little later with four pheasants; she sent Dettlaff a challenging glare, but the vampire only gave her a little bow.

“I see that I underestimated your skill and your endurance last night. I apologise.”

Milva scoffed, but smiled; Isa stared at her, wide-eyed.

“Can you show me how to shoot?” The girl whispered.

“Aye, but not with this bow,” Milva sat down to work on the game; Geralt sat beside her. “For now you two rascals can help us here.”

Between their skilled, practiced moves, and kids’ enthusiastic if uncoordinated help, the birds were soon cooking over the fire; doused generously in various herbs courtesy of Regis, they gave off a truly divine scent. The horses grazed happily on the soft grass, snorting quietly; the flames of their small bonfire cracked, sending sparks flying into the sky. The sun was slowly crawling down the firmament, its light growing warmer.

Geralt and Milva argued in a good-natured manner about their dinner; Regis kept adding fuel to the flame, criticising both their ideas. Cahir let their jokes and quips wash over him, bringing back the familiarity he missed so much.

But this time was infinitely better, he decided as Ciri sat down beside him. He brushed his fingers along her hand in a soft caress; in response she took his hand and squeezed it briefly, and most of his tension ebbed away. Her silences and distance still worried him deeply, but she was acting more like herself now, and it would have been entirely too presumptuous to assume he had been a focus of her inner turmoil.

Sitting with her now, he had to marvel at how natural it felt to be close to her, amongst their friends, their _family_. Even Geralt seemed to have come around; Cahir caught his glance a few times, but the simmering caution bordering on animosity was gone from the witcher's expression.

Regis checked on their dinner; he declared it ready and passed the meat around. The kids sat back down, flanking Dettlaff, wolfing down their portions. Geralt dug through his saddle bags and with a satisfied grunt recovered two more bottles of his wine; he opened one and handed it to Milva.

"This is nice," the archer stretched her legs out with a sigh, and took a sip before giving the bottle to Dettlaff. "No war, no creepy monsters sending nightmares…"

"The silence is all but sweeter for the storm we battled," Regis said with a small smile.

Milva snorted. "Missed your philosophing, barber-surgeon."

"And I missed your wit, dear Milva," Regis retorted, then took in their small group. "I missed you all, friends. It warms my heart to share this time with you all, again, even if our circumstances continue to be less than ideal."

"Then stay longer," Ciri cut in, speaking for the rest of them.

The vampire's smile grew a shade apologetic. "Another time. Now that I know where to find most of you, I can abuse your hospitality on other occasions."

"Never abuse, and you know that," Geralt pointed out with a hint of exasperation. "Corvo Bianco's doors are always open to you—both of you," Geralt turned to Dettlaff, who nearly dropped his portion of meat. The witcher looked around their little group. "All of you."

His eyes met Cahir's for a brief moment, and Cahir's breath caught in his throat.

"Aye, will have to come and see that winery," Milva quipped; Geralt glared at her, but she only nudged him with a wink and continued to eat.

Ciri grinned at Geralt. "It does look like you will be the first witcher to die in their own bed. Just imagine what Vesemir would say..."

"That I'm getting old and soft no doubt." Geralt said with a self-deprecating shrug. "Can't argue with that. And definitely can see the appeal of having a home."

"It is a gift, often taken for granted by many," Regis said quietly.

"Not by anyone here," Ciri said.

Her tone gained a strange note that Cahir could not identify; Regis sent her a small smile.

Dettlaff remained silent throughout their conversation; once they finished eating he rummaged through a pile of wood by the fire, fishing out a few pieces he deemed acceptable and settled back on the log to work at them. The children hovered beside him, watching every move of his skilled fingers carving intricate shapes and forms out of unassuming chunks of birch. Geralt and Regis discussed wines; Milva listened in silence with a small smirk.

Cahir picked up one of the wood pieces the vampire discarded, took out his dagger and began working on the promised bird. He wasn’t sure it was an appropriate use of his family heirloom, but Isa beamed at him, and Ciri was watching him with a smile too, and he decided that the purpose was good enough. Besides, he did kill the Crone with it.

"You're quite good at this," Ciri remarked.

He shrugged awkwardly. "I haven't done it in years, so if it resembles anything that flies, I'll be amazed."

"You have the skill," Dettlaff offered from when he sat a little away from them.

Cahir glanced at him, then at the elaborate shapes being born in the vampire’s hands.

"I'm not sure I deserve the compliment."

"May I offer a piece of advice?" Dettlaff said in a hesitant voice.

"Naturally."

"If you adjust the angle of the blade just a little…" Dettlaff moved closer and illustrated his point with a flick of his knife. “And try adding less pressure.”

Cahir watched his moves, then mimicked them on his piece of wood. “You’re right,” he said, impressed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Dettlaff said in his low voice.

Ciri smiled at the vampire. "You're a true artist. What’s your secret?”

“Years and years of practice?” Dettlaff offered. "And a lot of patience?"

"Fair enough," Ciri chuckled. "Not a skill for me then."

"I used to own a toy shop; I made all the pieces myself," Dettlaff added with a soft smile, then nodded at the kids. "I would get plenty of customers just like the two of you."

“A _toy_ shop?” Anti's voice picked up.

"With _real_ toys?" Isa crawled closer to Cahir, but her eyes were still fixed on Dettlaff, wide with awe. "I never had a proper toy before…"

"Soon you'll have two," Cahir pointed out and was rewarded with a bright smile. She squeezed between him and the vampire and made herself comfortable, while watching them both.

“How did you learn?” she asked.

"My brother taught me when I was a kid." Cahir smiled at the memories. "He got in trouble for that, too, after I nearly lost a thumb, and sliced a bit of finger off; but I kept at it and got better, eventually."

Isa leaned forward, trying to avoid the knife. The vampire beside her listened in silence. “You have a brother?”

“I had two brothers; they died when I was younger,” Cahir said. “And I have three sisters.”

“Three sisters…” Anti sighed. “It must be real crowded in your house.”

Cahir laughed softly. “My family house is big, but it did get noisy when we were younger! My sisters don’t live there anymore though; they’re all grown up. They live with their husbands and children.”

“And you?” Isa asked.

“And I’m here with you all,” Cahir said.

“Why?” Isa shot back immediately and Cahir began to wonder what exactly he walked into, and how to get out with his dignity intact.

“Yeah,” Anti agreed, looking at him from his place beside Ciri, his head tilted. “You’re a grown-up too? Why don’t you live with your family?”

Cahir tried not to let his discomfort show, especially in front of Ciri, studying him with a strange expression.

“I don’t have a family of my own,” he said, hoping his voice sounded natural.

“Why?” Isa was nothing if not consistent.

Out of nowhere, the dream bloomed in his memory, vivid and clear: that small hand tugging at his to get his attention, those green eyes_. _Cahir's heart clenched painfully. He would have loved nothing more than to believe it was a real vision, a possibility. That somewhere, in his—_their_—future, this could happen. But after all he had witnessed, he knew that such thinking was a path to madness.

With effort, he pushed the image aside. He sheathed his dagger to give himself a moment to clear his head, and assessed his finished piece. Isa saw her chance and shuffled even closer, looking up between him and the crow, her eyes shining. He couldn't help ruffling her hair.

"Because sometimes life doesn't go the way you want,” he said, forcing his mouth into a smile.

"Even when you're a grownup?"

"Especially when you're a grownup." Cahir nudged her, handing her the finished piece. “Here’s your crow. Hope it meets your expectations.”

Isa let out a delighted squeal and hugged him; then she jumped to her feet and ran to Milva to show the toy to her. Cahir watched her with a smile.

It took him a moment to realise Ciri had disappeared.

* * *

Cahir rushed through the forest, straining to listen for any sounds, trying to force his mind to quieten. If Ciri wanted him to find her, he would; walking, she couldn't have gone far. But if not, if she decided to use her powers—

He stopped himself from following that trail of thought. It would do nothing to try and guess what was on her mind. He had to try his best, and hope it was enough.

The birches stood silver in the moonlight, their shadows long, the night clear enough to allow him to see a little distance away—and after a while he finally spotted Ciri, leaning against a tree, looking back in the direction they came from. Cahir approached her, his worry solidifying as she stiffened upon hearing him.

"Hey," he said softly, stopping beside her.

Ciri didn't look at him but kept staring into the darkness.

"So you long for a family, for home," she said in a conversational tone, her expression closed off, and a sense of foreboding crashed over him. "Perhaps for children? Riddle me this: with such dreams, whatever possessed you to pursue _me?"_

"Ciri—" the panic contracted his throat but he forced the words out. "It wasn't… I didn't mean that—"

“You did," she said softly, turning to look at him. There was not a trace of warmth in her eyes. "You did mean it, Cahir. It was obvious to anyone with eyes how much joy this evening brought you. And I understand, I do. Why, knowing what kind of person you are, it was all rather obvious and I should have realised this sooner. I'm afraid my path involves none of these things."

A wave of anguish rose in his chest, threatening to drown him. A sudden thought hit him. "Is this because of what the Crone showed you?"

Ciri only shrugged. "Some things, I would have thought, are quite obvious, and don’t require a supernatural input. Like the reality of who I am and what my life on the run is like—a reality you seem unwilling to acknowledge."

Cahir felt close to tears. "That's not… I only care about all of that if— " He took a breath and threw in, desperate, "Ciri, _I love you_..."

"No," Ciri said slowly and Cahir had to wonder if she knew just how deep that single word cut. "You're in love with a mirage; a made-up image of me you spent an unhealthy length of time cultivating. It's not me you’re after, it’s her: your wronged princess, _your_ _queen_—but she is long gone, if she ever existed at all. There’s only me, and I can’t give you what you’re yearning for. It looks to me that you've spent half of your life chasing the wrong dream. It may be time to cut your losses."

With that she turned away. Cahir remained frozen to the spot, his limbs refusing to move. It wasn't happening, it couldn't be happening, not after everything, _not like this_—

“Ciri, wait—” he pleaded in a broken voice.

Ciri stopped and half-turned to him, and his heart latched onto the last thread of hope.

"Thank you for our time together. It was truly special and I won’t forget it anytime soon," she said softly, and his world shattered around him like broken glass, its shards slicing his heart. "Ride with Milva and Geralt to the temple; take Isa with you. I'll take Anti back to his mother first thing tomorrow."

She walked away, leaving him alone in an ink-black emptiness devoid of any light. His legs gave way and he collapsed onto his knees, a soundless scream tearing out of his soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come to tumblr for a hug should you need one.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Cahir aep Ceallach himself graces us with his presence." A man in a black leather armour with no insignia was walking towards him, his sword low. "How nice of you to stop by and confirm your identity—although we already took the liberty to inform the Emperor about your miraculous resurrection. One of us should be delivering the joyful news right about now. But a solid proof never goes amiss."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta for the chapter by [Meru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merulanoir/pseuds/merulanoir) birb. <3 Extra suffering courtesy of me.

His knees were numb from cold. The moss around him sparkled in the moonlight, dew droplets glimmering silver like tiny gemstones. Some small animal scuttled through the undergrowth; an owl cried in the distance, once, twice. Then silence.

The world stubbornly refused to end, indifferent to his wishes.

It was what he’d been dreading all along: a moment of recklessness, of saying one word too many. Of expressing a greedy hope for something more, something that just could not be. He had nobody to blame but himself.

Except that even in his worst nightmares, Cahir didn’t expect it to hurt so much.

To have a sliver of a life with her, to see a glimpse of a potential future—only to have it taken away. It felt as if she had ripped out his very soul.

He curled up further into himself, a soundless sob escaping his lips.

_Ciri._

There was a movement to his right; he registered it but didn’t particularly care. If something was to attack him now, so be it.

But the shape came closer, then hovered hesitantly beside him.

Cahir blinked, and looked up.

“Dettlaff?” He managed.

“Cahir,” the vampire said quietly. “You did not return with Cirilla…”

“Cirilla no longer welcomes my company,” Cahir whispered. Each word felt like a dagger twisting in his chest.

The vampire nodded. “I am deeply sorry. If you wish me to leave…"

Cahir managed a shrug. Of all their little group, Dettlaff's pity was the easiest to bear, somehow.

The vampire took it as an invitation and crouched down beside Cahir, regarding him in silence for a few heartbeats.

"I apologise if I draw the wrong conclusions, but…” He broke off, then added, quieter. “You remind me of myself, a little.”

Cahir made an effort to take a breath. "How so?"

"I...loved a woman, once. A human."

“What happened?” Cahir asked mechanically.

Dettlaff mulled over the words for a moment. “She tricked me into believing she was kidnapped. She made me murder people for her.”

Cahir couldn't help a gasp, his anguish briefly ebbing away. “What did you do when you found out?”

Dettlaff winced, then said barely audible: “I confronted her—but when I didn’t get my way, I unleashed lesser vampires onto Beauclair.”

Cahir stared at him in disbelief. “And I remind you of yourself?”

“You carry a lot of anger, a lot of guilt,” Dettlaff said calmly and it was Cahir’s turn now to wince, the images he tried so hard to forget flooding his memory. Cintra. Blood. Fire. _Her._

“You seem to be willing to go to any lengths to ensure your loved ones are safe.” The vampire continued; he fell silent for a moment, then finished, quieter: “And you and Cirilla...remind me of what we could have been had we both not done..._despicable_ things.”

Cahir was silent, taken aback by this rather accurate dissection of his character—and done by a being considered a monster.

Dettlaff nodded, as if he could follow Cahir’s trail of thoughts. "Unlike us, none of the things you two have done now are—" His jaw tensed. "Unforgivable."

Cahir was looking at him blankly. The vampire sighed. "You can still make amends," he clarified quietly. "If you so wish."

"If Ciri so wishes," Cahir managed, bitterness a bile in his throat. "She stated her claims quite clearly."

"Was she right? Were her claims...justified?"

That gave Cahir a pause. Every fibre in his body screamed in protest at the unfairness of it all, but Dettlaff's question stirred a vague discomfort underneath the hurt.

_Was_ Ciri right? Was he truly so blinded by all the years of dreaming of her that he failed to recognise what was in front of him?

She was deeply shaken by the visions the Crone had shown her, and yet here he was: trying to fit her into an image of a future that _he_ wanted—one that she didn't believe was even possible. Did he only add to her turmoil?

"She may have been," Cahir whispered, the discomfort solidifying as the realisation sank in.

He thought he’d made it obvious in those weeks they spent together that he wanted _her_ more than anything else in the world. That he already gave up everything for her once and was ready to do so hundred times more. She had to know that. There was no way she didn’t.

Unless, a chilling voice whispered, she no longer wanted _him_. But he suppressed that thought, choked it, his entire being latching onto the faint ray of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, not everything was lost just yet. Maybe he could find a way to make her understand.

Cahir took a shaky breath. "Thank you," he managed.

The vampire looked at him in confusion. "For what?"

"For making me see what I missed," Cahir said, a little bit of energy seeping back into him.

Dettlaff gave him a nod. "I am glad."

"How about you?" Cahir asked quietly. "How did you...move on?"

"Regis." Dettlaff made it sound as if it explained it all—although in Regis' case, it did.

Cahir managed a smile. “It's great that you found a respite.”

“He is my home,” Dettlaff said, and Cahir had to marvel at both the simplicity and the depth of that sentiment.

He took a breath to get the storm of emotions somewhat in check; he got to his feet and rubbed the life back into his legs. Then he straightened up and looked at Dettlaff.

“Thank you. Again.”

“My pleasure,” Dettlaff said with a small smile. “I would love for some tales to end happily and without bloodshed. This world would greatly benefit from that.”

* * *

The moon was high, their little camp basking in the silver light when Cahir and Dettlaff made their way back. Cahir immediately looked for Ciri—and was surprised to find her away from everyone, including Geralt, curled up facing the forest, wrapped up in her cloak so thoroughly that only the barest hint of silver was visible. Everything about her was a clear message to be left alone

He was decidedly not planning to disturb her tonight. He put his bedroll down beside where Milva slept, Isa snoring quietly next to her.

Yet again he assumed he would get no sleep, and yet again his exhaustion got the better of him. The sun was already high when he was awoken by the commotion around him. His attention were immediately drawn to Ciri, all ready for the road, talking to Regis.

Dettlaff was hovering nearby, observing them both with an inscrutable expression; Anti was chasing Isa, their laughter ringing in the peaceful silence of the morning.

Ciri turned to the kids, hands on her hips. “Time to get you home,” she said, and Cahir’s breath caught in his chest as he prayed soundlessly to any deity for a chance to speak to her once more.

Isa hugged Anti; they kept whispering some last shared secrets before parting. Ciri embraced Regis and then Dettlaff, clearly taking him by surprise.

“Thank you both, again, for everything you’ve done for us,” she said with a smile.

“Always, my dear,” Regis said, affection clear in his tone; he gestured for Anti and waited for Ciri to mount her mare before he lifted the boy into her saddle.

She wrapped her arm around his lithe frame; as Anti waved enthusiastically at them, Ciri looked around their little group. Their eyes met for a brief moment, but Cahir couldn’t decipher her expression.

“I’ll see you in the temple later,” Ciri said, and in a flash of light, they were gone.

* * *

The vampires said their farewells soon afterwards. Following Ciri's example, Cahir unceremoniously pulled Dettlaff into a hug. The vampire seemed to have expected it this time, for he looked less startled; he sent Cahir a smile.

"Good luck," he said in his pleasant drawl.

Regis rummaged through his bag, then handed Cahir a small vial and a pouch that emanated a strong herbal smell Cahir could not identify.

"This should help with the pain and speed up your healing," he said. "The vial should keep you going for a day or two; ask the priestesses to brew the rest once you get to the temple."

"Thank you." Cahir secured both in his pouch.

Regis smiled, and pulled him into a tight embrace. Before he released him, he put his hand on Cahir's shoulder. "I know how this must sound to you right now, but try to hold onto my earlier advice," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.

Cahir frowned, but Regis said no more, and went to say goodbye to Geralt and Milva. Fond words and promises of future reunions were exchanged, then both vampires disappeared in the forest.

Geralt looked around their half-packed camp. "Let's get going too," he said. "No point in lingering."

"Missing a bed, are you?" Milva snorted.

"Must be," Geralt grunted in response. "Old age, remember?"

It didn't take them long to pack up the camp. All the while, neither Milva nor Geralt made any smallest comment regarding the night before. Cahir feared their pity, or worse, Geralt's satisfaction—but there was none. Milva would cast him a worried look every now and then, but other than that, both just left him be. Cahir was immensely grateful for that.

His mind was still going over Ciri's every word and expression, desperate for clues to sustain his hopes, when Isa snapped him out of it, tugging at his sleeve.

"What is it?" Cahir willed his mouth into a smile.

"Can I ride with you?" The girl's eyes sparkled. "I asked Milva, she agreed. Please?"

He took in her hopeful expression and didn't have the heart to refuse. Besides, maybe taking his mind off Ciri would do him better than obsessing over his heartbreak.

"Of course," he said. He finished packing his saddlebag, his horse standing patiently. Isa raised her hand and patted its soft muzzle. Milva came over and put her hand on the girl's shoulder as they waited for Cahir to mount.

He was still stiff, his wound throbbing with pain. He drank some of Regis' potion, then with some effort, climbed onto his horse. Milva lifted Isa and he helped get her into the saddle.

"Comfortable?" Cahir asked, wrapping his cloak over them both.

"Yes." Isa settled against his chest and sighed contentedly.

Geralt and Milva were already mounted, too; they set off first, with Cahir following. It took approximately twenty slow steps of his horse for Cahir to realise agreeing to Isa’s request may have been a mistake.

"Did you and Ciri argue?" She asked, her voice muffled by the cloak.

Cahir suppressed a wince, then took a breath and released it slowly. "Something like that," he said, aiming for a neutral tone.

"She looked sad when she came back." Isa said confidentially. "And then she argued with Geralt."

"And you shouldn't have been eavesdropping, young lady," Cahir retorted, a little sharper than he'd intended, trying to ignore the aching echo her words rang in his heart.

"I wasn't!" Isa huffed, offended. "They were _loud_, but not enough to _hear_."

Cahir couldn't help a snort at the disappointment in her tone, while his mind raced through all the possible explanations, getting nowhere. It surely explained Ciri keeping her distance from everybody last night, but he couldn’t think of a reason for her and Geralt's quarrel.

The girl fell silent for a blissful moment, then she shuffled in the saddle. "Can I...ask you something?"

"You're doing it all the time." Cahir nudged her, his irritation fading at the hesitation in her tone. "What is it?"

She fidgeted a little more. "Mother Superior… Did you meet her…?"

"Briefly."

"What… What is she _like_?"

"She seems a bit scary," Cahir answered truthfully. "But she is a good person. Both Milva and Ciri think very highly of her, and I trust their judgement.”

That seemed to satisfy her; she relaxed back against him, and soon enough the slow gait lulled her to sleep. Ahead of him, Milva and Geralt chatted in quiet voices.

The rays of sun pierced the green canopy and filled the space with shimmering light, and the birds sang a concert overhead. The beauty and peace of their surroundings stood in stark contrast to the state of Cahir's mind.

The forest around them was thinning slowly, the undergrowth less prominent as they rode on, which suggested that Merchants’ Trail wasn’t far. And as he expected, after another hour or so they rode onto a wide, comfortable road, weaving between the woods and the golden fields, as far as the horizon.

Milva looked around, shielding her eyes.

"We're a day's ride from Ellander," she said. "There's an inn on the way; we easily get there by sundown. We can get proper rest there."

Geralt nodded, and spurred his horse to a faster pace. Cahir followed suit, pressing Isa closer to secure her. She stirred and yawned loudly and he couldn't help a smile.

They rode for another hour, the sun well past the zenith, when Geralt stopped abruptly. Milva glanced at Cahir as they pulled their horses to a stop beside Roach.

"What's goin' on?" Milva murmured.

"Smoke ahead," Geralt said, tense.

"Can't see anything." Milva stood up in the stirrups.

"Wind's blowing our way."

Now that he knew what to watch out for, Cahir too could distinguish a scent of something burning in the air.

"What you think it is?" Milva asked, a deep frown between her brows.

"No clue," Geralt said. "Smells of herbs. Keep your eyes open."

The archer reached for her bow and loosened a few arrows in the quiver. Cahir shifted his cloak onto one side to ease the access to his sword and strengthened his hold on Isa; the girl kept silent, clutching to him.

They rode on, but they didn't get far—the next turn of the road revealed a tall maple tree, and underneath it, an overturned wagon. A ribbon of smoke crawled up from a small pile of ash beside it, emanating a strong herbal scent.

Isa let out a soft cry. On one of the lower branches, a man hung.

He was still breathing, clutching desperately at the rope that cut into his neck. His left foot managed to find support against the side of the wagon, but the angle was awkward and his strength was visibly depleting.

Milva exhaled a curse, drew her bow and shot three arrows in quick succession. None missed; the rope gave way and the man collapsed onto the ground, coughing, retching, gasping for air.

Geralt was out of the saddle in an instant, loosening the noose, supporting the man as he tried to sit up. Milva joined them; she grabbed her water skin, and pressed it into the man's hand. He was taking ragged breaths, the air wheezing in and out of his lips as he shook all over, his shock slowly wearing off.

"Take it easy," Geralt said quietly. "You're safe. Take your time."

"What happened?" Milva asked at the same time.

The man closed his eyes, focused on breathing. The hand he raised to rub his face still shook badly.

"Witch hunters," he managed, his voice hoarse. "I'm a...herbalist. My entire stock...all gone."

"How long ago?" Geralt growled.

"They came some—two hours after sunrise. I camped here." The man hid his face in his hands. "They took my horse. Burnt all my dry supplies and confiscated all the essences. I don't even have anything to offer you for saving my life..."

"We ain't here for a reward," Milva grunted. "But I gladly repay those whoresons."

The man raised his head, fearful. "There were some twenty of them."

Cahir felt cold spreading in his veins; his mind was rushing, as if the man's words shook him awake.

"Did you see where they went?" He threw in sharply, trying to quell his rising panic.

"Same way you're heading," the herbalist whispered.

Milva spun around to look at him. "The temple."

Cahir nodded.

"Nenneke said they had tried before," he said through clenched teeth, then grimaced as more details connected. "And Ciri's contact claimed the spies looking for her joined forces with them."

Milva swore. Geralt rose; he rummaged through his pouch, then handed the man a small sack.

"To make up for your losses." The herbalist was blinking at him, stunned, but Geralt already turned to them. "Cahir, are you well enough to fight?"

Cahir reached out into his own pouch, fished out Regis' vial and downed its content.

"I will be."

Geralt only nodded, and turned to Milva.

"Take Isa and ride straight to the temple, as fast as you can. Warn them. Ciri should already be there."

Milva looked as if she wanted to protest, but Geralt put a hand on her shoulder. "You know these parts better than anyone. And if we don't manage to catch up with them, your bow will be needed."

She fell silent, then nodded sharply, and mounted her horse. Cahir nudged his stallion to move towards her. Geralt helped to move Isa and sat her down behind Milva.

"Hold on tight, wee one," Milva said, then spurred her horse and was gone in a cloud of dust.

"Wait," the herbalist called after them, going through the contents of the unassuming pouch. "These are…"

"A fresh start," Geralt threw over his shoulder, as he mounted Roach. He turned to Cahir. "We've no time to lose."

Cahir didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

It was a mad ride, the landscape flashing by them as they galloped along the Merchants' Trail, their horses' hooves thundering against the dirt of the road. The wind on Cahir's face was forcing the breath back into his lungs, his mind empty for everything but a focused determination. Nothing mattered just then: not his wound, not his horse, its neck white with sweat, not Cahir's own weariness.

They had to stop the witch hunters before they got to Ellander.

They had to.

They rode.

* * *

The sun began to set, casting long shadows on the road when Geralt slowed Roach down to a canter. Cahir pulled on the reins and turned to the witcher in a silent question, adrenaline pumping in his ears.

"Right ahead," Geralt growled, then listened for a moment. "They stopped. You ready?"

Cahir drew his sword. "On your mark."

Geralt sent him a feral smile and with a pang of pain Cahir understood at once whom Ciri got it from. "Let's dance."

The two of them came down onto the unsuspecting group like a tidal wave. They caught the witch hunters completely by surprise; the two Cahir cut down and threw from their horses died with a shocked expression on their faces.

Cahir turned his horse around and charged again as Geralt jumped out of the saddle, rolled away and got up, all in one fluid movement, his sword at the ready.

Their maneuvers gave the witch hunters the precious seconds to reorganise; some dismounted, the rest split into smaller groups, and attacked.

Cahir could no longer see Geralt; out of the corner of his eye he spotted bodies collapsing, but his focus was entirely on his own opponents.

Two witch hunters charged at him, trying to push him between them. Cahir yanked at the reins and steered his stallion out of the range of their blades. His horse danced in the narrow space, whining loudly, and it took all his skill to keep it under control. Cahir twisted in the saddle and barely blocked another attack, when a bolt whizzed by an inch away from his head.

He spun around and spotted a man atop a magnificent black horse, wielding a crossbow. Ignoring the other witch hunters, Cahir charged directly at him. The man spurred his mount just as three other riders cut between him and Cahir. He managed to deal a few strikes, all the while trying not to lose the sight of his target.

One of the attackers fell forward, the blood splattering around; the second slid off his horse as Cahir cut his leg open. The third swung his sword at Cahir in a wide arch, forcing him to cling to his horse’s neck to avoid the blade.

Once past them, Cahir looked for the crossbowman, and spotted him at the edge of the group, sitting still as he aimed at the commotion with Geralt at its centre. The horse gave the shooter a good vantage point, and even though the witcher was a blur of movement, it was an additional danger they did not need.

Cahir roared, and kicked his horse. The stallion obeyed and rushed forward, but the witch hunter ignored him, focused on his aim; with a sinking feeling Cahir realised he was too far to stop him. An idea struck him: he shifted the blade to his left hand, as his right grabbed his dagger and threw it at the man.

The knife found its target, rather shockingly. Cahir was mostly hoping to distract the man, but the short blade sank in the man’s torso and he lay flat on his horse before tumbling down to the ground. Cahir pulled his horse to a stop; he dismounted and rushed towards the fallen witch hunter. He had to duck when another bolt flew his way. The shooter managed to reload the crossbow one more time before Cahir got to him and sank the sword in his heart.

But in the mad chase to take out the immediate danger, Cahir didn’t pay attention to other witch hunters; now as he turned around, there were surrounding him, tightening the circle slowly. Without thinking, he grabbed the dead man's hand, still clutching the crossbow, aimed, and shot. Then he yanked the weapon free, reloaded, and shot another target, then another. But two more were coming closer, circling him; he dropped the crossbow and grabbed the hilt of his sword. He turned, his blade singing in a complicated sequence that kept the attackers at bay.

One jumped at him, dealing a blow to his shoulder; Cahir parried mid turn, getting out of the man's range. That brought him closer to the other attacker, who immediately lunged towards him. Cahir blocked him, and launched a counterattack, but the man easily avoided his strikes.

Meanwhile the first attacker tried to get behind him, but Cahir ducked, rolled aside; he grabbed a fistful of dirt and jumped back to his feet, throwing the little stones into the closest witch hunter's face. The man cursed, lifting his arm to wipe his face—and gave Cahir the opening he was waiting for. He lunged, cutting across the man's armpit and chest; the witch hunter coughed and curled up and Cahir kicked him to the ground.

But the commotion gave the other attacker an opening too; he slid behind Cahir and aimed for his back. Cahir tried to duck out of the way, but he was too slow; the blade cut through his armour and drew blood.

He cursed, and spun around, his sword in a wide angle, catching the attacker just below his helmet. Blood splattered onto the ground.

Cahir wiped his face, assessing the damage. The adrenaline briefly blocked the worst of the pain but his wound on the side throbbed, too, and he knew he wouldn't last long. Regis' concoction was a mild pain deterrent, it wasn’t intended to make him fit to fight.

Behind him, someone _laughed_.

"Cahir aep Ceallach himself graces us with his presence." A man in a black leather armour with no insignia was walking towards him, his sword low. "How nice of you to stop by and confirm your identity—although we already took the liberty to inform the Emperor about your miraculous resurrection. One of us should be delivering the joyful news right about now. But a solid proof never goes amiss."

Cahir clenched his teeth and charged at the spy. The man avoided his blade in one fluid movement, then dealt a few swift counterstrikes and Cahir had to twist his sword in an awkward arch to parry his attack. A sharp pain shot through him from the wound on his back.

The whoreson was _good_.

"I can only imagine how delighted the Emperor will be to know that we found you here, watching over his person of interest."

The spy sent Cahir a cold smile, drawing a complicated sequence with his blade. Cahir focused on the man's movements, looking for any opening, while the man kept talking.

"I'll be glad to secure a private audience for you myself. I am certain His Imperial Majesty will find elaborate ways to show you his gratitude."

Despite his attempts to ignore the obvious bait, Cahir felt a surge of fury—but he didn't even get a chance to react. A bolt hit him square in the chest; the other sank into his thigh. He looked down, surprised, at the dark stain blooming on his leather armour.

Another crossbowman. He had to warn Geralt.

"You fucking _morons_!" The spy roared. "This one was mine!"

"_Cahir!_"

Geralt's voice sounded funny, Cahir thought. Like coming from a distance. Distorted, too. As if the witcher was afraid.

His legs gave way and he collapsed onto the ground.

A light flashed at the periphery of his vision.

Then nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An offer of tumblr hugs still stands. This has a happy ending! Or witcherverse-happy anyway. I promise to post the last chapter and the epilogue as soon as I can, since I never kept any schedule anyway.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I owe you an apology," Ciri said, avoiding his gaze. "I—I overreacted. While all my points still stand, I shouldn't… I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions and take your choice in the matter away from you. I hurt you, again, and in more ways than one. I'm so sorry."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes are my own. (Shout if you see any!) 
> 
> May is a hellish month for me, so I need all the positive vibes I can get, and sharing these scenes with you, the scenes I've had sitting in my WIP folder for over a year, is just pure joy. 
> 
> All the fluffy word hugs to you.

* * *

_“Stay with me! You hear me?! I got you, but you must stay with me!”_

_“You have to leave now, Ciri.”_

_“But—”_

_“I stitched Geralt together more times than I can count. Trust me."_

_“But he won’t die? Promise me? He can't!”_

_“A lot depends on him. But first you need to let Nenneke and me take care of him.”_

* * *

The darkness surrounding him was quiet. Safe. Painless.

He welcomed the relief it brought.

* * *

The dream was back: a gentle touch, a soft voice repeating his name. He knew that voice. He dreamt of it often. But something was tugging at the threads of his consciousness. Something changed.

_"I'm so sorry… Come back, please... Come back."_

The words were...different, somehow. Wrong.

I am here, he wanted to say. I’m fine. It's painless. It's safe.

_"You cannot… You cannot—_die_—And believing that I never...cared… That I don't… Cahir…"_

Cahir dreamt of...tears? But tears didn't belong in this place? He wanted to say as much, but forming words was impossible in the tar-like silence he was floating in.

He surrendered to it and allowed it to rock him to sleep.

* * *

The darkness around him slowly gained substance and Cahir realised it was no longer empty; there were some shapes in it, blurry and vague.

His side felt warm, too, and once he gathered enough willpower to force his body to move, he slowly turned his head.

Ciri lay asleep beside him, her shape like a cloud of silver, like moonlight spilled. He tried to speak, but no sound came out. With effort, he lifted his hand to touch her hair, expecting it to part like smoke under his fingers, the echo of her words an invisible wound throbbing with pain.

_You're in love with a mirage._

But she felt solid, and she jerked up violently, her eyes blazing despite the dark. Weak as he was, Cahir could only gaze in wonder, his brain failing to understand the sight of her.

"Cahir—_oh gods_—" Her breath hitched, and she cupped his face and kissed him softly; she pressed her forehead to his, her tears wetting his face.

His eyes slid close, his head spinning. It was too much, it was overwhelming, all his senses flaring up at once.

"You're safe," Ciri whispered, her words barely intelligible between sobs, her thumb caressing his cheek. "I'm here. I'm here with you. Sleep. You need plenty of rest."

How she was by his side, Cahir could not understand, nor did he have enough strength to ponder this. But her voice was soothing, her touch gentle, her lips pressed against his forehead so, so soft.

It felt safe. It felt like home.

Cahir slept.

* * *

Next time he came to, the sun filled the room with a dimmed orange light. He tried to move, but everything hurt. He must have made a sound as Ciri appeared beside him straightway; she touched his face gently, wetted his forehead and his lips with a cloth soaked in cool water. Cahir eagerly licked the moisture away, his throat raw.

"How—" he croaked, but Ciri put a finger on his lips, gently silencing him.

"Try not to speak much," she said. "You were unconscious for over a week, you mustn't strain yourself. Nenneke says I should leave you in peace for another few days—"

"Don’t," he forced through his parched throat.

Ciri smiled, and caressed his cheek. "I'm not planning to. I did enough damage as is. I only hope it's not irreparable." She helped him up, gave him a glass of tepid water and supported him as he drank. Then she gently lowered him back onto the pillows as she kept talking. "Yennefer got to the temple before I even brought you here. Together with Nenneke, they patched you up."

"How—" Cahir took a careful breath. "Yennefer?"

"My medallion." Ciri shrugged with a sheepish smile. "Turns out the fight with the Crone was not enough to trigger a reaction from me, but seeing you nearly die was."

Cahir tried to dissect her words, but his head spun too much to focus. Ciri noticed his discomfort; she left his side and closed the curtains, then busied herself with lighting a few candles on the chest of drawers by the window.

"Mari cooked a meal for you every day for the past week and forbade anyone to go near it," Ciri said as she finished and sat on the bed. "She even went after Geralt when she found him snooping around the kitchens. We're fully in her good books after we got rid of those bastards. Isa has been asking about you some twenty times a day, too. She'll assault you as soon as Nenneke lets her in here, so brace yourself."

Cahir managed a weak laugh.

Ciri smiled, and studied him. "Do you think you can stomach some food?"

Cahir thought her question through. "Maybe," he said with effort.

Ciri only nodded and left the room. As he waited for her return, he closed his eyes and took stock of his condition. His chest and his throat were in agony; his back and his leg hurt only a little less. He felt dizzy, but not nauseous. Overall, it could have been worse.

It likely would have been, he realised, had it not been for Ciri; the last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the flash of that familiar green light.

As if called by his thoughts, Ciri came back, carrying a tray. The steaming bowl on it was nearly lost amongst a wide selection of small bottles in weird shapes, which would have undoubtedly met Regis' approval.

Ciri put the tray down on the little table beside his bed. She gently sat him up and secured him with numerous pillows; even if he hadn't been in pain, he wouldn't have been able to move much. Then she sat down on the bed facing him, a bowl of soup in her lap.

Cahir grimaced and wanted to protest; to say he would have been just fine on his own, that he was no child to be spoon-fed. The sentiment must have shown in his expression as Ciri raised her eyebrows at him.

_"Really,"_ she said pointedly, as if in direct response to his thoughts. "The least I can do right now is to help you heal. I'm afraid you're entirely at my mercy."

Cahir took a careful breath and quelled the need to point out he had been at her mercy all along. And that it didn’t end particularly well.

"Thank you," he managed instead.

"No, thank _you_," Ciri said softly. "And I'm sorry. But first things first: let's get you back to the land of the living."

With care and patience Cahir never would have expected from her, she slowly fed him the thin, warm chicken broth. Eating was far more of an ordeal than he'd expected: his throat was on fire, his lips chafed and sore.

But Ciri was watching him like a hawk, mindful of his each grimace, his every smallest wince of pain. She would stop then, wet his lips, give him some bitter-tasting potion that dulled most of the pain. Then she would wait for him to tell her whether to stop, or continue.

Once his vision began to swim, she made him drink something viscous out of one of the small bottles. It was cool on his tongue, soothing.

"It should help you sleep," Ciri said with a small smile, before helping him lay back down, all but tucking him in. "I'll be here if you need anything."

Cahir wanted to react, to say something, but his eyelids were too heavy, his thoughts too slow, and soon a deep, dreamless sleep claimed him.

* * *

“Welcome back.” A new voice cut through his dizziness.

He focused on the person beside his bed. “Nenneke," he managed.

"How are you feeling?"

"Not dead. Hurts too much," Cahir said with effort. He made a move to sit up but a sharp pain shot through him and he had to reconsider his plan. Defeated, he sank back into the pillows.

The curtains were drawn, a few candles beside his bed the only source of light. Cahir couldn’t tell if it was night or day.

The priestess came closer and inspected the various wounds and stitches. "These look to be healing well, although you will have a few scars to add to your collection. But you're resilient; you should be feeling stronger by the day. Bed rest for another week or two, and you will be right as rain after."

"Thank you," Cahir said with as much feeling as his weak voice allowed.

Nenneke sat back in the chair and gave him a smile. "It's us who owe you thanks for dealing with those fanatic thugs."

"Had to be done," Cahir shrugged, and immediately regretted the movement. He decided to change the subject. "Where’s...Ciri?”

“I sent her to get some rest in a proper bed," the priestess said. "It wasn't easy; she refused to leave your side. This girl is as stubborn as Geralt. She blames herself, too." Nenneke sighed. "Why do these two always need to overcomplicate the simplest things?"

Cahir was silent, digesting the priestess' words.

"She also refused to tell me what happened, and only said she had been an idiot," Nenneke continued when he didn't respond. She raised her eyebrows at him. "And while I don't feel there's any need to challenge that particular claim, it really doesn't explain much, or even narrow the options down."

He let out a forced chuckle, and hissed in pain as the movement pulled on the multiple stitches.

"Ciri said...to ride here with Isa. She took...the other child home," he said slowly, pausing for breath.

But Nenneke wasn't fooled. "And that's the entire reason she was sitting here, stewing in guilt for days?"

Cahir grimaced. "We...argued," he managed.

"Argued," Nenneke repeated, a hint of mockery in her tone. "Did it involve anything else than her shouting at you, refusing to listen to counterarguments, and storming away?"

"Not shouting," Cahir murmured. “But you seem to know her…rather well.”

He tried not to think about that night during his moments of consciousness. His heart was still bleeding at the memory of Ciri's tone that cut his very soul, of the haunted look in her eyes, like a trapped animal.

But between Dettlaff's words and Ciri's continuous presence at his bedside—and the care she had shown him—the vague hope that had kept him going was morphing into something more defined with each passing day. He was wary to give fully into that hope though; one rejection was enough for a lifetime.

"I know both her, and the people who shaped her." The priestess said into his thoughts with a smile. "Strange as it may sound to you, she seems the most reasonable of the lot. Don't give up on her just yet."

"I haven't given up on her for the last decade," Cahir managed, his tone more bitter than he'd intended. "I don't think I could give up on her now...even if I wanted to."

* * *

The next few days passed as a blur of conscious hours and vivid dreams, and Cahir had some difficulty telling one from the other. The only constant—in both realms—was Ciri.

He could feel his strength returning slowly; unfortunately, as his condition improved, the reserves of that patient gentleness Ciri surprised him with seemed to diminish.

"What were you two _thinking, _going against them by yourselves?" She growled, supporting him after he jerked up from a nightmare, gasping for air.

This in turn triggered a coughing fit that had him double over in pain, tears rolling down his face. Once he stopped struggling for air, Ciri made him drink one of the potions; then she lay him down on the side.

Cahir was trying to get his breathing under control enough to speak. "Geralt—"

"Geralt can be a stubborn, reckless fool and you know it," Ciri retorted angrily. "Geralt would have gone against them by himself and gotten himself killed. I don't know why I expected more reason from you. You knew I’d already be here. Why didn't you wait for us?"

Cahir closed his eyes for a few heartbeats, waiting for the potion to start working—and for Ciri's anger to abate. Then with some effort, he turned onto his back and caught her gaze.

"The situation is worse than you think,” he managed quietly, the memories stirring up.

Ciri glared at him. “You nearly died. How can it be _worse_?”

“That third Nilfgaardian… He went off to report that I was here, with you." He broke off, then forced the last words out. "Ciri… I don't know what you were planning to do, but… You need to disappear."

She swore under her breath. Cahir let his eyes slide shut, a wave of despair building up within him. He strongly doubted even Kovir was safe for him, now that the emperor had a confirmation that he was alive. He wondered how much time he had. Was the emperor planning to make a grand example out of him? Would the fact that his desertion helped keep Ciri alive result in a lighter sentence, like a lifetime of imprisonment—or would it only be seen as a further insult to the White Flame’s authority, or ego?

Ciri’s hand slipped into his. Surprised, he opened his eyes, only to see her leaning over him.

“We need to get out of here as soon as possible,” she murmured.

Cahir only stared at her, stunned; but before he had a chance to react, Nenneke came into the room, startling them both. Ciri sat up, but didn't let go of his hand.

"That's enough for the day," the priestess announced. "He needs rest, not overstimulation. Out with you."

Ciri muttered something under her breath, but Nenneke ignored it. She put fresh dressings on the small table beside his bed and turned to Ciri with a pointed expression.

"Do you need it in writing?"

Cahir stared at Ciri in a silent plea; she glanced at him, then back at Nenneke. “Can I at least stay and help?"

The priestess rolled her eyes. "Bring me a bowl of hot water, and some soap.”

Ciri disappeared out of the room; Nenneke turned her attention to him as she began to meticulously unwrap the numerous bandages that covered him.

“Why—” Cahir began slowly. “Why do you keep sending Ciri away?”

“You need peace and quiet to heal.” Nenneke smiled at him. “She needs a slap on the wrist.”

He let out a weak laugh, then hissed in pain.

The priestess nodded, as if he had just proven her point. “Like I said.”

She moved to examine his wounds one by one, humming to herself. Halfway through the process, Ciri came back with a bowl and put it beside the pile of dressings. Isa sneaked into the room behind her; when the girl saw he wasn’t asleep, she let out a squeal and ran over to hug him.

“Be gentle,” Nenneke chastened her, but there was a smile on her lips. “Come, since you’re already here, you both can help me. There are fresh cloths and two jars of antiseptic ointments in the drawer by the window.”

Nenneke guided Ciri as to what treatment each of his wounds required, and supervised Isa's preparation of the fresh dressings. The melody of their voices and their gentle touch lulled Cahir into a half-dreaming state. He lost the passage of time as he let the world drift away. He didn’t realise when they were done; he equally couldn’t tell if Ciri’s lips on his forehead was a reality, or a dream.

* * *

The next morning, Ciri was back by his side when he woke up.

“How are you feeling?”

Cahir took a moment to assess his state.

"Better," he said; he was sore all over, but he could breathe and speak without pain.

Ciri smiled. "Good. Let me get you some breakfast."

A moment later she came back with a bowl of porridge, topped with some sweet syrup.

"Can I at least do it myself?" Cahir looked at her, hopeful. He was still weak, but he was also utterly sick of being tended to.

Ciri helped him sit and took her customary spot facing him. She held the bowl up for him. "Baby steps," she said in response to his scowl. "One thing at the time."

Cahir only shook his head and ate slowly. He didn't make nearly as much of a mess as he'd feared, and he sent her a victorious smile once he finished.

But Ciri didn't react; instead, she busied herself with putting his bowl away and rearranging the bottles on the table by the bed.

"Ciri?" Cahir couldn't help a sudden spike of worry.

She rubbed her face, then she sank back onto the bed, facing him. Every line of her body screamed of discomfort.

"Are you strong enough to talk?"

Cahir froze. Was this the chance he had been hoping for? Or would it only be her reinforcing the message?

"I should be," he said quietly.

Ciri took a breath and exhaled slowly, fidgeting where she sat. "I owe you an apology," she said, avoiding his gaze. "I—I overreacted. While all my points still stand, I shouldn't… I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions and take your choice in the matter away from you. I hurt you, again, and in more ways than one. I'm so sorry."

Cahir hesitated, then reached out and took her hand. Part of him wanted to rush with reassurances and declarations, but for once he decided to hold back and let her speak. He kept silent and only ran his thumb along her palm in a gentle caress.

Ciri glanced at him, then down at their joint hands. "I've had a lot of time to think during the past few days," she continued, her voice quiet. "You kept asking what the Crone showed me. It was my future: never at peace, never safe; always on the run, through broken time and desolate space. All I ever wanted was freedom, but it seemed to mean a life of bitter loneliness. I didn't want to believe her, but… It made _sense_." She broke off, took a shaky breath, then continued. "And when you said your life didn't go the way you wanted—when you mentioned family… It was everything that I had feared. It hit too close, and I lashed out.

"But then, despite what I had just done to you, you went and nearly got yourself killed protecting me and this place, because you're, well..._you_." She bit her lip, looked away, then shyly met his gaze. "Cahir, I—I don't know if I can give you what you long for. I did not exaggerate when I said the things you want in life may not be possible; not with me, not in my circumstances."

"I don't care," he blurted out, squeezing her hand, the cautious spark of hope flickering stronger at her words. "I don't _care_. Ciri—"

"Stop," she interrupted him. "Don't ever give me the answer you think I want to hear instead of the truth."

With her free hand, Ciri caressed his cheek and Cahir struggled against the overwhelming need to lean into her touch.

"Please remember I am the cause of all your problems, not some magical solution to them," Ciri said softly. "Nor am I an answer to your every dream. On the contrary: choosing me likely means having to sacrifice some of your other dreams—stability is the very last thing you can expect from me. For one reason or another, be it my parentage or my blood, I may forever be on the run. I need you to be clear on that."

Cahir's hand was shaking as he reached out to cup her face, his entire world going still in anticipation.

"_Choosing you_?" He repeated, breathless.

Ciri gave him a small smile. "I love you, Cahir Mawr—"

His mind frozen in shock, he crushed their lips together, cutting off whatever number of his names she was planning to use. She threw her arms around him, and he lost himself in her, any reservations or fears forgotten.

Ciri laughed into the kiss, but Cahir felt her tears too—or maybe his own tears, he couldn't tell. He wanted to shout, cry, laugh; there was still entirely too much space between them, and he pulled her closer, burning to feel every inch of her against him.

Ciri kept kissing him as if the world was about to end—maybe it was, maybe it did already? She never stopped touching him, impatiently removing all the unnecessary layers that separated them, trying and mostly failing to be mindful of all his various wounds and stitches.

But Cahir couldn't care less about the pain, especially once her fingers were burning on his bare skin. He was torn between yearning to lose himself in her, and the need to stretch this moment for eternity, to drink in her every smallest sigh. He softened the kiss, then broke it and leaned back to stare at her in wordless wonder, trying to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming.

Ciri stilled, her hand pressed to his chest, over his heart. Her eyes shone as she looked up at him.

"I take your reaction as a sign that I can still redeem myself."

“Ciri…” He cupped her face in his hands, dizzy with euphoria. "Tell me this isn’t some cruel illusion, like the Crone's magic, mocking me?”

Ciri touched his cheek.

"It seems you have some doubts about the nature of reality, again," she whispered with a smile. "Myself is all I have to offer to dispel them.”

There was no teasing in her voice this time, only infinite tenderness, and Cahir’s breath caught in his throat. He took her hand and pressed his lips to her palm, to the inside of her wrist. A sigh escaped her, her eyes fluttering shut as Cahit pulled her closer.

"I love you," he whispered in a trembling voice in between fleeting kisses to her brow, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "I will love you till my dying breath, and if possible, then after, too. Nothing will change that. Nothing."

Ciri let out a broken sob, and as she claimed his lips, Cahir realised just how desperately he needed to voice his feelings in those moments of deepest intimacy; how he had yearned to abandon all the caution for the fear of scaring her away—how much he needed her to _know_. His mind and body aflame, he gave himself over, his soul bare before her.

It was just her then, those impossibly emerald eyes of hers brimming with desire and affection, with no space for mischief, for hiding behind masks and jokes. It was just her and him as they found each other in the simplest, the most profound form of connection; as they found each other in their truth—the stubborn, fickle, persistent love.

It was _everything_—everything he’d ever wanted, everything he hadn't dared to dream about; everything he did not deserve, and yet, by some miracle, was now given. And when Ciri arched in his embrace, his name a whisper on her breath, a whisper laden with emotion both of them now dared to name, for the first time in his life Cahir allowed himself to _believe_.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cahir ran his thumb gently down her scar. "What is it that you want for yourself?"  
Ciri covered his hand with hers. "You," she said with a small smile.  
Cahir's breath caught in his chest.  
"You already have me, my love," he whispered, his voice faltering. "Body and soul, in whatever capacity you need, or desire. Always."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All mistakes continue to be my own. Thank you all for the love for this happy (eventually!) little AU of mine. 
> 
> Enjojy the fluffy epilogue with just a sprinkle of angst, because I'm me and they're them.
> 
> If you're interested, [here is my playlist that accompanied me throughout writing this.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5Y5ejbAO2GOkyHtskCwXdr?si=zVMEXnoxTjq0MTz1B3hefw)
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3

* * *

“Not sure if you noticed,” Ciri said, curled up in his embrace, her arm wrapped around his waist, her fingers gently stroking bare patches of skin between all the bandages. “But I was trying to make a few important points, you know—before.”

“I’m afraid you lost me pretty early into that conversation,” Cahir murmured, keeping his eyes firmly closed. His mind was still suspended in a state of bewildered delight and he was reluctant to face the world.

“Yeah, I realised that.” Ciri pushed herself up and placed a quick kiss on his lips, proving yet again that the reality may have been, for once, equally exhilarating. “But I still want to hear your thoughts.”

He opened his eyes, but instead of giving her an answer, he cupped her face and pulled her in for a kiss. She indulged him for a moment before wriggling away with a soft laugh.

“Not what I meant. Come on, tell me what you think. Communication is key, remember?”

It took Cahir some effort to push aside the dizzy happiness and give her concerns a proper consideration. All the while she was studying him, her expression wary.

“You’ll say that I tell you things you want to hear, again,” he said quietly. “But at the moment, being with you is honestly all I care about. I love you with all my heart, with everything I have—I can't imagine a scenario where you are no longer enough."

"I've seen plenty of impossible, you know," Ciri countered. “You do realise choosing to be with me means the unknown in place of a home that you long for? Not to mention your...other dreams, which may never come to pass.”

Cahir reached out and touched her face. "I chose you a long time ago and I made peace with the consequences of that choice. I accept what you are saying, and I understand your circumstances." He broke off, and grimaced. "_Our_ circumstances. Don't forget I'm even more of an exile than you now."

Ciri covered his hand with hers, intertwining their fingers. "I'm sorry," she murmured. She fell silent for a moment, hesitating, then said slowly, "I could… I could go to Nilfgaard and accept whatever it is that Emhyr wants from me, in exchange for your pardon—"

"Don't even think about doing that because of me," Cahir cut in, more forcefully than he'd intended. He cupped her face. "A lifetime prison for you in exchange for my freedom? What kind of a trade is that? There's no way I'm ever going to agree to this idea." A sudden thought hit him. "Promise me you won't attempt anything like that behind my back."

Ciri looked offended, but Cahir only glared at her pointedly. She shook her head, huffing a quiet laugh, and kissed the top of his nose. "Fine. I promise. But if that worked, we might still have had each other, without having to hide..."

"Until the emperor would force you to wed some Nilfgaardian noble to placate the aristocracy and ensure the continuation of a dynasty?"

Ciri winced at that. Cahir ran his thumb gently down her scar.

"What is it that you want for yourself?"

She covered his hand with hers. "You," she said with a small smile.

Cahir's breath caught in his chest. "You already have me, my love," he whispered, his voice faltering. "Body and soul, in whatever capacity you need, or desire. Always."

Ciri let out a shaky exhale as she claimed his lips. She pulled back a fraction, just enough to catch his gaze. "I love you," she breathed.

She had been repeating it, over and over, when he claimed her; had been whispering it in the soft silence afterwards. Every time it felt as if his heart would stop—and this time was no exception.

"It will take me a while to get used to this idea." Cahir smiled, but his voice wavered all the same. He cupped her face and pressed his forehead against hers. "We'll figure it all out, one step at a time. Remember that as long as you want me, we’re in this together.”

"_Together_," Ciri repeated as if she was testing the shape of the word on her tongue. "It's not a concept I'm overly familiar with, I'm afraid."

"Neither am I." Cahir placed a kiss on her forehead. "I guess we have some catching up to do."

He was rewarded with that mischievous grin that he adored beyond words. "Oh,_ loads_."

"Impossible, insatiable witcher." Cahir shook his head with a laugh while his heart attempted to tumble over itself.

"Get used to that, too," Ciri murmured, and claimed his lips again, cutting off his enthusiastic response.

* * *

Nenneke didn't let him leave the bed for another week, no matter how much both he and Ciri insisted it was putting everyone in unnecessary danger.

But the priestess was unrelenting, and so he spent his days tucked in bed, with Ciri fussing over him. Milva joined them for breakfast once, then twice, with Isa following her like a shadow, and before they knew it, a new tradition was born. Geralt would join every now and then, too, and just like that, this felt like a _family_ again; but this time Cahir didn't have to worry about any looming danger, about spooking Ciri, or Geralt’s judgement, or any other thing that had hung like a dark cloud over his head before.

It was over. They made it, _together_. Cahir couldn’t remember ever feeling happier.

Ciri would not leave his side unless it was absolutely necessary, making a little nest for herself beside him. Isa would crawl up onto his bed as soon as she was done with her breakfast, and would squeeze between him and Ciri, flooding them with questions. Milva and Geralt would sit at the small dining table the witcher found somewhere and dragged to his room, drinking and chatting, until Nenneke would come to check on Cahir and send the rest of the group to whatever tasks she decided were important on any given day.

The priestess finally stopped interfering and accepted Ciri’s constant presence by his side, too—Cahir had no way of knowing if this was because of Ciri’s apology, or because of his condition improving. He harboured a suspicion it was a combination of both, and it delighted him to no end to have Nenneke’s support.

And not only hers, as it turned out.

Ciri was only gone for a moment, left to get them dinner, when there was a knock on the door and Yennefer let herself into his room.

"I'm glad to see you’re recovering," the sorceress said, coming over to his bed. She made some complicated gesture with her hand, closing her eyes for a brief moment, then nodded to herself. “Now I just need to decide if I should thank you for what you did, or rip your head off for the stupid risk you and Geralt took. Or possibly both.”

“No need, Ciri did that already,” Cahir said with a small smile, but Yennefer’s scowl did not falter.

“You do realise you were moments away from death?”

He grimaced. “I do. I owe you and Nenneke my life. Thank you.”

"Then do us a favour and try not to waste it," Yennefer said sharply. "Especially now that my wildling of a daughter saw sense and dropped her ludicrous attempts at indifference."

"I'm not planning to waste it, _especially _now,” Cahir retorted. “And judging by all the ballads I’ve heard, I may have an idea whom Ciri takes after in that regard.”

Yennefer’s scowl deepened for a moment, then disappeared altogether as she let out a short laugh, her eyes flashing with glee. "I keep underestimating you, and your qualities. Good; you will need them."

"He will need what now?" Ciri walked into the room with a tray full of bowls, and a plate with bread. "Why do you two keep plotting behind my back?"

"I don't know what you're referring to," Yennefer said with an air of nonchalance. "I'm just checking on Cahir's condition."

Ciri put the tray on the chest of drawers, then turned to the sorceress, hands on her hips. "Because Nenneke's updates aren't sufficient?"

Yennefer gave her an elegant shrug. "You know me: trust no one."

“I do know you.” Ciri smirked; she walked over to Yennefer, who dropped the pretence at once, her expression softening. The next thing, Ciri's arms were around her neck, Yennefer's fingers clutching onto Ciri's shirt.

"Thank you," Ciri murmured.

Yennefer only tightened the embrace, then she leaned back, her hands resting on Ciri's shoulders. "Have you decided what to do next?"

Ciri glanced at Cahir with a smile. "Not yet. But I have one or two ideas."

Yennefer took a stray strand of hair behind Ciri's ear. "Make sure you stop by before you disappear."

Ciri squeezed her hand. "We will. Promise."

The sorceress gave her another smile, then nodded at him, and left them alone.

Ciri helped him sit up, and put the tray with food between them. They are in silence for a moment. Cahir wolfed down the spoonfuls of the vegetable stew, helping himself to the thick slices of bread, his body making up for all the days of eating very little. Ciri ate slower, nibbling on crust, enjoying the meal rather than devouring it.

Once Cahir's hunger was somewhat sated, his mind circled back to the question he had been mulling over the past few days.

“Those ideas you mentioned to Yennefer—what do you have in mind?” He smiled at Ciri. "It feels great to ask without the fear that the answer excludes me altogether."

Ciri rubbed her forehead with a grimace. "How did you endure all that I put you through?"

Cahir put his bowl down, took her empty one from her and moved the tray separating them away; then he took her hand and pulled her close. She hid her face in the crook of his neck, her fingers curling into his shirt.

“Must be my perseverance again,” he whispered into her hair, his fingers carding through the silver waves. “But I gladly take all of it and more if it means having you here.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I was awful, and cruel.”

“You were also right.” Cahir pressed a kiss to her head. “I spent years living in my dreams and ignoring the reality. You deserve far better than that. But, Ciri—there's nothing I want more than to know you. To share the past, and the future."

Ciri shifted in his embrace. When she spoke, her voice came out muffled. "You may yet regret that. My past is not pretty."

"And mine is?" Cahir touched her chin, gently lifted her head. Her lips were pressed together, but he kissed her scowl away, then pulled back a little.

"You asked me to always be truthful; I ask you to never hide. Whatever you may want to throw at me, I promise I can take it." He gave her a pointed look, softened by a smile. "Now, will you finally answer my question?"

Ciri let out a resigned huff. "Fine," she surrendered, a small smile tugging at a corner of her mouth. "Maybe you do already know me, after all." She felt silent for a moment, then began, her voice hesitant. "I don't think we'll be truly safe anywhere on the Continent, not while Emhyr is being possessed by whatever new idea he has for me. So I was thinking…" She broke off, and searched his gaze. "Would you be willing to see the worlds I visited when I was fleeing the Hunt?"

Cahir sat in silence for a moment, hundreds of questions unfolding in his mind. All the while Ciri kept talking, quickly, quietly, words tumbling over one another.

"I know I'm asking for a lot. I'm expecting you to give up your life, to trade whatever you managed to build for yourself in this world, for the unknown, for the unimaginable. This was one of the reasons I didn’t bring it up before. You already sacrificed everything for me once—and here I am, asking you to do it again and again. I know I have no right, especially after how I treated you—"

Cahir kissed her. Ciri tensed, then melted in his embrace. After a moment she broke the kiss, but didn't pull away, and only pressed her forehead against his.

"This is not an answer," she pointed out softly.

"On the contrary," Cahir whispered. He leaned back just enough to look into her eyes. "Of course I agree—how could I not? The dream of you had never seemed within my reach before. Now that you are here with me, there’s nothing in this or any other world that would make me give up on you.”

"Are you sure that's what you want…?" Ciri bit her lip as she looked away. "You wish to share a future, but I'm not certain what that means in my circumstances. You dream of children; I've never even entertained the thought of having them. Running is all I know, all I've been doing for decades. What kind of a life is that? How could I impose such fate on someone else? On a child? On you?"

His heart clenching painfully, Cahir cupped her face in his hands. That familiar shadow was once again lurking in her eyes when she glanced back at him.

"That's the Weavess talking, my love,” he said, putting as much assurance into his tone as he could. “Don't ever think you're imposing anything on me. There's nowhere I'd rather be than by your side, no matter where we are. And as for the future...” He caressed her scar. "You have always carved your path yourself, against all the odds, and you didn’t let anyone stand in your way. Why would the future be any different? I don’t know what our path holds—nobody does. But I’m looking forward to finding it out."

Ciri’s breath hitched. “I don’t deserve you.”

_“Stop.”_ Cahir said sharply, exasperated; Ciri winced in surprise. “If anything, it's me who doesn't deserve any of this. Do you think I don’t bitterly regret all the despicable things I’ve done, all the pain I’ve caused you—all the fear, the _nightmares_—you, and everyone else? You lost so much because of me and I have to live with the knowledge that I can never make it up to you. I can only do whatever’s in my power to make you smile, make you _happy. _And that’s all I want to do for as long as I breathe. But I can only do that if you let me.” He held her gaze, his heart breaking at the sight of tears welling up in her eyes. “Ciri, love… Will you let me...?”

Ciri closed her eyes, tears spilling over and down her cheeks. “I believe I already have,” she whispered, her voice quivering. Then, quieter, “I love you.”

He kissed her then, and she threw her arms around him, clutching to him as if afraid to let go of him, her body shaking with quiet sobs. Cahir held her, whispering all the words and promises he had kept buried deep in his heart all this time. He wished more than anything to take away some of the hurt she so skillfully hid behind all the masks—the masks that were now slowly coming down, allowing him to see the glimpses of her scars.

Eventually her tears dried out, but she made no move to disentangle from his embrace. They simply sat in silence, Ciri's hand on his chest, Cahir's fingers buried in her hair, like so many times before—but never before had it been so raw, so _real_. He closed his eyes and relished the warmth of her, the tender, fragile connection; the stillness that was, for once, devoid of unspoken words, of lingering shadows of their past, of fear.

“Pat was right,” Cahir whispered. When Ciri glanced up at him, teary eyed and confused, he gave her a small smile and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Your trust is the rarest of gifts, my love."

* * *

There was one more visit that Cahir knew was coming; one loose thread to tie up, one last relationship to redefine. Even with everything said and done he still couldn't help but feel a little apprehensive about it.

"Geralt!" Ciri jumped out of the armchair she was curled up in, mixing some herbs into a paste according to the priestess' instructions, to make more salve for his wounds. Cahir wasn't sure if he found her barely disguised hatred for the task more amusing, or endearing.

Now, she put the bowl and pestle away, not bothering to hide her relief, and pulled the witcher into a hug.

"We talked yesterday," Geralt pointed out with a hint of irony.

"It feels like _ages ago_." Ciri waved away his remark.

"Nenneke made you work," the witcher guessed immediately. When Ciri made a show of ignoring him, Geralt turned to Cahir. "How are you feeling?"

"Never been better," Cahir said with a smile, pulling himself up to sit straighter as Ciri fixed his pillows.

"Knowing the state you were in, that's some exaggeration," Geralt retorted. He reached to his belt and unfastened a slim shape that he put on the bedside table, then sank into the armchair Ciri abandoned. "Found your dagger."

Cahir looked from the neatly wrapped blade to Geralt, surprise and gratitude welling up in his chest.

"Thank you," he said quietly.

Geralt just nodded as he leaned back, his legs stretched out comfortably.

Ciri beamed; she pressed a quick kiss to the top of Cahir’s head before taking her customary position beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, Cahir saw the witcher smile.

"Feels good to be right," Geralt announced to nobody in particular.

Cahir studied him for a moment, then looked at Ciri, only to see her scowling at Geralt.

“Care to fill me in?” Cahir asked, perplexed.

Ciri rolled her eyes. “Geralt here had a few rather strong opinions about some of my choices. I did not care for those opinions at the time. Or now, actually.”

“Did you really?” Cahir turned to Geralt in surprise. "But I thought you disapproved—"

"You," Geralt interrupted him, pointing at Ciri, and expertly dodging the question, "looked more like a wraith that night than a person making a well thought through decision."

Ciri glared at Geralt for a moment longer, then she turned to Cahir. The witcher sat back with a smug smile; he cast Cahir a conspiratorial look, followed, of all things, by _a wink_.

"Don't listen to him," Ciri said.

"No, no," Cahir protested; Geralt's behavior was both stupefying and unexpectedly amusing. "Please; you know well I spent weeks worrying sick about every single aspect of us_, _including Geralt's reaction. Tell me what happened."

It was his turn now to be on the receiving end of Ciri's glare. Then she let out a pained sigh, and rubbed her forehead with a faint chuckle.

"I guess, after everything, I deserve this..." She took his hand, intertwining their fingers. "Contrary to what I said that night, I absolutely did not want to part ways with you, and it took Geralt more or less one look to figure me out. Then, quite uncharacteristically, he decided a lecture was in order."

“Spent decades playing an escape artist.” Geralt shrugged. “Takes one to know one."

"I heard from Isa how well the lecture went." Cahir laughed, the last threads of tension dispersing as Ciri and Geralt shared a look, and a grin. "I only wish I had known all of this at the time."

Ciri glanced up at him with a grimace. "I'm sorry."

Cahir took her other hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles. "Apology accepted, my love."

Her face lit up with a smile so bright and tender that it warmed up his very soul. Her eyes were the colour of the sea glimmering in the sunlight, emerald green and shining, and he was losing himself in them, with no desire to ever find his way back.

He jerked in surprise when Geralt noisily pushed away the armchair and got up.

"Do you know when you'll be leaving yet?"

"As soon as Nenneke releases him out of her clutches," Ciri said. She let go of Cahir's hands as she turned to the witcher. "I'm hoping no word of the temple was sent back to Emhyr, but I still want us to be gone in case someone comes asking."

Geralt nodded. "You'll be back?"

"Of course." There was a smile in Ciri's voice. "Whenever we can. I just need to figure this whole thing out."

Geralt scooped her up in a tight embrace. "You will," he said quietly. "You always do."

"Thank you," Ciri murmured into Geralt's chest. "For everything."

* * *

The day Nenneke finally let Cahir out of the bed came simultaneously far too early, and way too late. It meant freedom after weeks of being immobilised, but it also meant the day of their departure was coming near.

Ciri had told him about a few worlds where she spent some time and made a friend or two, including the truly bizarre one where she and the elven sage spent the longest. Cahir could barely wrap his head around all that she told him; Ciri seemed amused by his open fascination, but didn't protest when he asked that they start their journey there.

Geralt and Yennefer left for Corvo Bianco a few days prior, and as promised, Ciri was planning to visit them before leaving for good, to stay for a day or two, and to ride their lab. A few commodities, minerals and solutions were useful to have, for safekeeping or trade, no matter what world they would end up in.

Ciri suggested visiting his parents, too, and Cahir spent a few days torn between the temptation to see them again—to bring_ her _home—and worry about any potential repercussions his family might have faced now that the agents had caught his trail. In the end, he decided not to increase the risk by showing up. He didn't want to mention his dilemmas to Ciri, to spare her any additional burden, but his attempts turned out futile. She saw through him right away, as if she could read his mind and his heart, and Cahir was surprised by the depth of her compassion and understanding. Only then did it occur to him how similar their paths had become over the years.

On the day of their departure from the temple, Milva, Isa and Nenneke came to see them off. Ciri led their small group to the little orchard to shield them from curious glances as they exchanged the farewells.

"Don't want you to go," Isa announced, her voice wavering at the verge of tears, her slim arms around Cahir's waist in a tight grip.

"We'll be back," Cahir said quietly, ruffling her hair. "And we'll come to see you whenever we can."

"Promise?" The girl's teary eyes looked up at him.

Ciri put a hand on her shoulder and Isa let him go, and spun around to hug her.

"Promise," Ciri said with a smile.

Milva rubbed angrily at her eyes and wrapped all three of them in her iron embrace.

“Good luck, ye fools,” she murmured. “Come back in one piece.”

“I’ll miss you.” Ciri chuckled.

She disentangled from Milva’s grip, then walked over to where Nenneke stood, and threw her arms around her.

"Thank you, Mother. For everything."

"Be safe, children." The priestess’ tone wavered a little as she let Ciri go and turned to Cahir.

He bowed awkwardly, but Nenneke just shook her head and unceremoniously pulled him into a hug.

“Look after each other," she said as she took a step back, and nodded at Ciri. "She needs it more than she would ever admit.”

Cahir smiled. “I know. I’ll do my best.”

"Hey," Ciri protested at the same time, her voice full of mock outrage. “I'm standing right here.”

"That was the point," Nenneke said. "Now go, before I get emotional. Good luck. And stop by, whenever you can."

“We will,” Ciri said, then she took Cahir’s hand. She raised her eyebrows at him. "If you were to change your mind, now's the perfect time. It will be more difficult later."

There was a finatilty to her tone; her words landed heavy, echoed in his mind with unknown consequences. Cahir looked into those impossibly green eyes of hers, the eyes that haunted his dreams for half of his life, and felt the answer in every fiber of his body.

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles.

"You got it all wrong, you know," he said, and Ciri frowned. Cahir touched her scar, and smiled. "I do dream of a home, true—but my home is wherever you are."

She pulled him in for a kiss as the ink-black void surrounded them, and they were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a wee sequel from Ciri's POV I already have, and will post in a few days, and I have Ideas for them for the next 20 years or so, because that's how my brain works. _(Also, I'm not sure how subtle I was, but those future sequels will very much be about that Cahir's dream from a few chapters back...)_
> 
> I'm not done with them, or with this series just yet. 💜

**Author's Note:**

>   
Comments and kudos sustain my soul.
> 
> I'm also on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/andordean) should you wish to come scream at me.


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